Remembering

By Ruth Aroni

I remember sunny days and pink roses and skinny girls with smooth legs and bald old men crying in the night.

I don't remember where I left my virginity or if I ever had it to begin with or if it was on the bus after I got off and walked to my apartment.

I have always tried to be clean and neat and tie things in bundles and smile at handsome men who I hoped found me attractive although I never did get picked up by one.

I don't see why you are always telling me to change and get better and do better and look for another answer when I'm fine just the way I am.

I have never sat in first class on an airplane, drank a martini, sat through three movies in a row, eaten less than two chocolate chip cookies at a time, danced the tango, or used a hula hoop.

I wonder why the sky is blue, why Nuns wear black and white, why I love to dance so much, what it's like on the moon.

I do not want to shut down, lose my sense of humor, miss a sunset, lose my teeth, miss love, break a red crayon, burn my mouth from hot chocolate, get a ticket.

I tried to fry an egg, laugh at your jokes, wear pants that were too tight, rob a bank, run for school president, make friends with someone small.

I try not to let my ground turkey spoil.

This is Where I come From

By Anna Bernard

Rolling mountains, determined creeks, small shacks,
red earth and brown cliffs with minimal vegetation
Heavy basalt rocks that formed at the bottom of the ocean
before they were shaken
and thrust to lie mild and still by the roadside,
by the cemetery, the railroad tracks.
I come from a great abundance of tears
Stubbornness, grit, and prayers before the shrines of saints
I come from Blessed Mothers and Novenas and dark polished pews with
horizontal scratches made by fidgety hands that came unfolded somewhere
around the Agnus Dei.
I'm from hard work and dreams, both humble and soaring
from rugged shoes and no shoes on the way to hundred dollar shoes
I come from pinching pennies and learning to splurge
From hope in Burma and a rock that a soldier carried in his pocket
I come from yellow roses
and memories of a girl who loved chickens and was loved by chickens that clustered around her in the twilight
I come from Wars and a Revolution in the 20th century
I come from the unique heartache of miscarried children and children under 3 months and under three years whose names are spoken in a whisper of loss
I come from winding roads and leaving home forever
Clifton and Morenci, Silver City and Hanover, Juarez and places in Chihuahua,
From floods and fires that rang the ridges and the understanding that Santa Ana is both the bastard who sold us and the devil winds
that gave us jumpy nerves and dry skin
I come from Pasadena and 90 years of Rose Parade watching
A hometown that changes all around but keeps the street names and the remembrances of my parents, my siblings, myself
I come from ocean splashes on a trip to Zuma Beach in a bathing suit with a turquoise clothespin pattern
I'm from homemade lemonade with bits of branches and sweet blossoms discarded by the sink
From countless family dinners around an oak table that I was taught to set perfectly
From Grandmas who believed in literature and universities though they had never been to campus
From people who thought poverty was for climbing away from while reaching out with helping hands
I come from copper mines
From Apache land and the Rio Grande, from the Gila River and the Mimbres,from Durango
From seashells found far from homes and the Tarahumara runners of Copper Canyon.
I come from walnut trees, and palm, sycamores and blue sky covered by smog.
I come from countless stars in the Southwestern sky
From lightening strikes and thunder
From people who moved North
Perhaps a millenium after moving South
I come from people who don't think in borders and boundaries
but in terms of rivers running first one way and
then the other and flowing
as we move out ahead
and as we follow...