Adobo Criollo Sergio Antonio Ortiz Rivera

Mother’s Day I keep calling and all I get is an answering machine. She’s eighty-nine and someone has had the bright idea of getting her an answering machine. She probably doesn’t know how to use it. Or maybe she can’t remember to call back. She might have forgotten where she put my phone number. Anything could have happened at her age, and I am furious, no livid, and full of anxiety. I remember the birthday party she had for me when I was seven. The toys were all bigger than me. The cake was a carousel, a huge carousel with big beautiful horses. No one in town had ever seen anything like it. Now I fail to be grateful on mother’s day. How can I forgive myself?

Visions I saw myself  before an empty stage. I saw myself in galleries  of laminated clippings  declaring war on Boko Haram, #BringBackOurGirls! I saw myself on the subway  in stinking clothes during rush hour  with balloons attached to my ears. I saw myself simulating masturbation  while the Governer of Puerto Rico, Alejandro Garcia Padilla, drove by. I saw myself waking in the place  where women die giving up   my dream of being seen.