Coqui

Coqui

It’s been five years since I visited last. That’s because my husband left and I thought it would be weird. A few months ago, at the request of his grandmother, my ex-husband asked that I accompany him to her home in Puerto Rico and here I am. I drop my suitcase on the floor. My room is still the same; it used to be our room. In front of me I see it; I had forgotten it was there, a large picture of us at our wedding. Clasping my hands over my face, I weep. The door hinges squeak, and behind me, someone lingers.


Fragile arms wrap around me and, in Spanish, an old woman whispers, “don’t cry.” Kissing my shoulder, because that’s all she can reach, she says “I love you, precious one.” This old woman, my ex-husband’s grandmother, still pleads for my happiness as she always has. Tear drops from her chin fall onto my arm.

At the airport, it had been a tearful reunion. She stood with open arms. Her left arm shook under the weight of her cane.
“Mama”, her name fell from my lips. I squeezed her gently.
She let out a tiny sob, my hair swayed under the force of her breath, her voice cracked, “You are home.”
“I missed you,” although I said it in English, somehow she understood.
We walked arm in arm as my ex-husband trailed behind listening to his mother, Letty, jabber on, of course, she had come too. She arrived a week before us so that she wouldn’t miss the visit.
My ex-mother-in-law grabbed Mama’s arm, “don’t worry Sherry, I got her.” My name is not Sherry, it never has been. How hard is it to say Cherish?
I clung to Mama, “I’ve got her.” There was a slight decline at the curb.
“Oh, be more careful here,” Letty tightened her grip.
“We’re fine.”
Mama chuckled and in broken English repeated, “we fine,” she slapped her knee and grabbed my hand. She is always proud of herself for any English she can muster.
My ex said, “Mom, why don’t you help me with the bags.”
She huffed and picked up a bag while still holding on to Mama. Her efforts had almost pulled us over.

Now, here she comes again.
“Ah, there you are,” her pudgy arms pull us in for a strange embrace. Her hot breath is on my ear. I quickly wipe away the pool of tears under my chin.
“Why are you,” her voice catches. She never misses an opportunity to cry. “I love you, you are still my daughter,” she lies.
I draw a quick breath and part my lips to speak.
Dishonest tears stream down her ample pink cheeks, “I wish you hadn’t gotten divorced from my son,” her neck is bare where she used to wear the locket I gave her. I clutch at my stomach and straighten my shoulders.
Dropping her arms, Mama’s voice is sharp, “Letty, come.” Another dramatic sob and she’s out the door. Mama shakes her head then blows me a kiss and closes the door. I am alone again.

Later that night, I am okay for the moment.
Mama is making coffee, “Quieres café?” Of course I want her coffee, there is nothing like it in the world.
“Si, gracias,” she sets a cup down for me and watches as I enjoy the first sip. My eyes close as the warm liquid slides over my tongue, “gracias, Mama.” It is quiet. She sets another steamy cup on the placemat opposite me. Kissing me on the forehead she disappears into the hallway. Soon after my ex-husband emerges from the hall and takes the vacant seat. In this small kitchen, we are in close proximity.
“Like your coffee?”
My head bobs, “yeah it’s always good.”
The tiny vein aside his nose pulsates. Oh God, what now?
“This is hard for you.”
I shift my weight, another sip.
“I’m sorry. I regret what I’ve done; it’s never what I wanted for us.”
My eyes and nose begin to tingle. The coqui, a native frog to the island, chirp outside.
“I just want to make sure you are okay and I told my mom to leave you alone this weekend.”
“You didn’t have to,” I say.
He scratches his side, his nervous tick, “Talk to me.”
His eyes are still beautiful. I gently place the cup down but support it with both hands, “I feel so…”
“Hey, look at this,” his mother’s shrill voice tears through the moment like a knife, aborting our tiny conversation. Rage dances beneath my skin.
She continues, “Baby, this was the outfit you wore when you were first born.”
Putting a hand in the air, “Mom, we were…”
She hugs him, “You are still my little baby. And look at the little booties that went with it, how precious they are.”
I stand and push the chair in.
“Cherish,” is all he gets out before she begins again.
I take my coffee outside; my ex-husband follows me with his eyes but remains with his mother as she prattles on. On the balcony, the night air is cool, the coffee warms my stomach, and the coqui keep me company. Only three more days.