Mami,

Did history repeat itself? A deck of cards drawing for the next, waiting for the luck of the draw but losing it all in the end. Do my eyes that falter resemble those of your father who had no tenderness, breaking like soars of an ocean for your mother? Do my father’s eyes look at you the same? Will this be the future of my love? 

I certainly wish you could respond to all of my inquiries, but you never have. I’m left to find the answers to all of these important questions on my own, whether they come from pictures, letters, smiles, or eyes that witnessed every minute detail that occurred. My consciousness captured every occurrence, appearance, and moment of despondence. The photo taken that day was one that I’ll never forget.

He takes you by the hand to show you the dance you did at your wedding. He grabs you by the waist swiftly and slowly, the kitchen lights illuminating your hearts, interwoven into a warm blanket, shielding you from any harm he caused.

Your smiles glistened.

The entire night was consumed by it.

My father, having no clue how to follow a beat, you step on his leather-sewn shoes, the pair that his mother bought for him when you both first got married. He wore a finely white buttoned shirt with a cashmere navy blue sweater over it. I had chosen it just for the occasion. He said he wanted to look good for you. You giggled like a child who had just fallen in love once again with the man who broke your heart several times but gave you the best comfort of company, which is all we wish for in the end. I took the picture — click, click. You had no clue since there are very few times I can catch the wrinkles in both my parent’s eyes. They looked as though they let out a breath from all the years that had passed. You and he only stared into each other’s eyes, universes of unanswered questions, lies, mysteries, and words never said.

You danced the same as I do now, not missing one beat. I’m in a trance, with every pirouette, adagio, fouette, and ronde jambe filling the empty space of the house. You put me in dance classes early in my life just to let me try out everything possible. It sounds a lot like humans. We try everything and get rid of the things we don’t like. I stopped dancing after one year of class. You never got mad. Instead, you said, “Sarita no todo se puede hacer,” with a watercolor smile on your face that no one could erase, and now that same smile is imprinted on my face like a hand on a broken TV. I’m sure your father had the same smile.

I met my grandfather after his death. I saw his face but never knew the story behind his eyes. You tell me how much I resemble him, with his grin and wrinkles appearing at the edge of my lips, the same as yours. His affinity for music captivated my ears and had me dance like he once did with my grandmother. Who has now forgotten his face? His elegance for style and photos changed to a suit every time the camera came out. He wrote poetry about his misery, happiness, loss, and of my mom. Now my own hands write of you, mi mami. Only you can see the resemblance between my grandfather and me, but it seems that now I beg to see through your lens how much it hurts to see your father in me. All the photos of when I was a child showed hints of my grandfather’s laugh in me. Look at any photo, and you’ll see. 

There’s one that I keep treasured from when I was three. Your fine hair was pulled back with a black headband. A black cut-sleeve shirt with white stripes across. I, on the other hand, was a burst of color with a headband with a neon blue flower. You made it just for me. I pulled my hair back just the same so maybe I could look half as put together as you always did. I regained the hue of my honey skin thanks to my yellow collared shirt. You grabbed my arm, scared as though you’d lose this moment. You reclined on the brown leather couch that hid every memory inside of it.

Spilt milk and my cereal crumbs from sitting in front of the TV every morning to see PBS Kids. Lost pens were in the cracks; a Shopkin was probably hidden in there somewhere. My father makes jokes from the other side of the camera, “No juges Sarita” or “una mas.”

Click — “Say cheese” — click.

Somewhere in between those moments, I laughed and stuck my tongue out.

You smiled, lines to the side so wide you could never hide any of your expressions the same as your father’s. So I did the same. I laughed with my tongue out, releasing the feeling of comfort. You were happy.

Click.

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Translation

 “Sarita you can't do everything”.

 “Don't goof around Sarah”.

 “One more”