Where they saw God, I only saw colorful, fractured glass. In secret, I desired such clarity of vision. Solace in faith. The altar of my childhood home honors Christ, multiple buddhas, and several pieces of amethyst all gray with dust. Above the entrance door, with a xeroxed poster of the sacred heart to ward off illness and evil, is a cheap bagua. Next door is a chapel, but I have not attended mass there since I was five. Even now the rosary remains to me a mystery, but I ask myself the same questions Job did daily. I whisper apologies to trees, kiss gratitude into my bread, and press my palm onto stones as if looking to sync heartbeats. In accepting the truth of tides, it seems only logical to believe the moon somehow has a hold on my mood. Where I place mirrors— never in front of the bed or on the South wall—is still a matter of safety. I feel lonely trying to pray. Although when I am desperate to find what I have lost, I often fall to my knees and beg for reprieve. On other days I would wait for the duende to return my missing pen, dropping it out of thin air. Here, a flicker. An understanding. Still, all the stories we tell ourselves when a storm takes lives away—earthly wrath, heaven’s justice, absolute randomness—taste like sand in the mouth. For our horrors there must be judgment, so we make them, even in error. I have made many myself. The Tower flies out of my hand, as does the woman, kneeling, pouring water into the pool. I find myself, much later, reading this ancient book. Our past gives markers for memory not revelation, so I walk for purpose elsewhere. Here. I think I have seen it, rustling leaves, that iridescent sheen…
Infrarrealista Review is a literary nonprofit dedicated to publishing Tejanx voices.