I was her favorite.
Of my siblings,
I was the favorite.
She never stated thus,
but I knew.
She called me “hijita”
and chastised them
when I complained
as they called me
“gordese” or “gordita”.

Maybe it was because
I was the youngest,
the baby.
Maybe it was because
what I called her—
“Oye Mama”
when I was little,
“Mami”
from six on.

She taught me
how to make lomo.
Las papas, cebolla y tomate.
I forgot to put in the oil.
“¿Salio bien?”
Si, mami.
I wanted to make aji de galina
but she said it’d be too hard
for me.
“Puedes hacer papa a la hyuancayena,”
but it needed a special aji
and I soon forgot the lesson.

She’d be so happy when I would call.
“Hola hijia!”
So touched,
so overjoyed.
She’d ask when
I’d be coming home for vacation
and I already knew she’d be there
with open arms
and puckered lips
to greet her pseudo-daughter.

I didn’t like her short hair.
It screamed of sickness,
it bellowed the truth
of the secret kept from me
for three months.

“Estoy bien,”
she said, tears in her eyes.
She was so thin.
I didn’t like it.

She firmly held my hand
the day we visited her at the hospital.
Let Megan sit on the radiator.
Let Charlie sit in the chair across the room.
Hijita stood by her side,
hand held tightly
as she tells Mami
about the latest crazy hair color
she’s come up with.
“¿Azul? Eres loca!”
She laughed then.

The irony is crushing.
I stopped the carcinogens
because of her.
Only to start them up again
six months later.
I thought she’d get better.
I quit smoking,
she should’ve gotten better!

“She’s in the hospital.
Don’t freak out, honey,”
And the breathless phone conversation.
“Mom, she couldn’t breathe….
she couldn’t breathe…..”

Not even a month later,
a phone call as I prepared for class.
I wasn’t supposed to know,
at least not until I was done
for the day.
“Oh my god,
I’m so sorry.
Here, have a cookie,
its chocolate chip.”

Out of respect,
I left my pentacle
on the dresser
when we went to Jersey.
The walls held pictures of her,
smiling teeth,
squinting eyes.
No puedo respirar…
No puedo respirar…
Burying my head in
my mother’s shoulder,
tissues tucked into my clenched fist.
“Okay, baby, okay,” she said.

It’s almost a year later,
and all I want to do
is make lomo.
“No olvidas el acete
esta vez,”
I can hear her whisper in my ear.
Claro, mami
I respond.