REACHING FOR MADRE

Standing in a parking lot caged
by fence too high, I, unsure
which room is hers,
search black-screened windows
for a glimpse of Madre. Sun
reflecting off metal flashing
blinds me. Transfixed by white light
I shade my eyes on a hot summer day
in 1973 sitting on woven Andean
blankets, on Quintero beach,
with Madre and friends, with red wine,
baby abalone, avocados and tomatoes
drenched in olive oil and lemon,
and panes pequeños to sop plates clean—
revolution cannot invade
our beach fiesta, our beach siesta.

A young couple walks briskly past,
man’s hand on woman’s elbow
nudging her away from me—no
smile, no hello, no nod to stranger.
I look back to
black-screened windows that shelter
her in tiny studio
from the virus that will kill
los mayores, the elders.

Madre told me yesterday
that she was happy to see
from her shaded bay
potted plants perched on a balcony rail
across the now vacant lot where
children once played—
another six weeks or months
before she’ll step outside her room
to walk on asphalt where I
stand on faded hopscotch squares
drawn with multi-colored chalks, a child’s
petroglyphs of unicorns, stick people
holding daisies, names too faint to read.

I, anxious, slip phone from hip pocket,
speed-dial “Madre”— count the rings
one, two—“Hola my darling daughter!”
She sings her off-tune greeting.  Six weeks—
days X’d out with black felt pen, I hide
disappointment from my voice, time being
of the essence now. “Hola Madre!
Hola!  Go to your window,
raise the shade! Look toward the balcony plants.”

I see her shadowed image
lean into the window frame. A breeze
shifts cumulus clouds and sun shines
spotlight onto asphalt. She reaches
her tiny hand out toward me—opening
then gently squeezing fingers to palm,
as if praying for more.  She whispers,
“I see you, I see you.” The sun
warms me back to sweeter days
shared. I wave—reaching
toward her. Hasta mañana, Madre.

Hasta mañana.

• Sande de Salles
5/10/2020