Purple Portugal
My mother comes into the kitchen and tells me that my great-grandmother d ied last night. Avó as I used to call her. I lean over the side of the sink to breathe and all I can see is a lost porcelain charm. A little Virgin Mary at the bottom of a teacup full of tepid and radiant camomile tea. Mary’s face is blank, no eyes painted. Avó’s apartment was full of idols, decorating countertops and fireplaces like icing on a cake. The gaudy cakes in Portuguese bakeries were mounted like chapels of sugar. We sit down and eat chorizo and pound law; mother went to the deli to mourn today. I stuff my face, and I don’t taste anything, I don’t want to, because maybe if I fill myself up enough, I’ll be closer to her. Closer to hearing her say “ mange, mange ”. I see her cutting a slice of cheese in between her breasts beside me. I lay in my bed that night and close my eyes. It’s as if I’m five again in Jonathan’s room. Above my head is a p...