Brujitas

Little witches, she calls them, appearing on the lawn in a snap, thumbelina morada at our feet and spiked crown atop a yellowing heart. I don’t remember what we talked about that visit, just the scurry of minutes with their many legs and the cauldron of sun and the memory of another house, where we had both lived a long time ago in the mute dread of his drinking and whims. Driving by I hardly recognized the shard of a porch and relentless walkway to the front door, bad luck then and always, and we turned to see the house, covered in ragged traveler’s palms, the wet sheet of evening air, and the all- at-once conversations in two languages hushed. I didn’t stop but slowed, all those years in that tiny box of concrete and roaches and heat and oblivion. I could write about the perfume of lime and mango trees in the backyard, our little boat piercing the bay waters on Saturdays with the peace of belonging somewhere, even if it never lasted. I could. But the past is a haunting and the best you can hope from a ghost is a sorrow that won’t kill you. We lived. Today she stands beside me admiring the weeds, resilient in high summer, and she tells me she is shrinking, how old age has diminished her. I tell you she only becomes more—more beautiful in her cutoffs and coral lipstick and flip flops with plastic daisies, more dear than my own escape across a country to a place where no one really knows me, and how I wear that blankness like a gown I keep making, bodice a tropical night and skirt trailing behind me no matter how many times I cut it away. She is more surprising than my own reinvention, more unwilling to speak of that time than any of us. She is more. I could say we stood with our arms around each other, admiring how color can crack the ground and insist on its turn. How my will prevailed. We are ordinary women and grow our magic as we need it.