Childhood

Childhood

By Julisa Vega

I shed tears in that one hospital room I was born.

“She’s so adorable” says the doctor in Spanish to my mom.

That 19-year old mother wrapped her daughter with a Winnie the Pooh blanket like a fragile glass ornament. Like two angels from heaven, we settled in and enjoyed each other’s company.

______________________________________________________________________________

It’s January 11, 2000 and Cristina is born. Mom’s soft, delicate hands caress Cristina to calm her sobbing. Glaring at that innocent child, I close my eyes and I say to myself, “Is Cristina going to change our lives?” I stay with that doubt in my mind. Later on, I realized she did change our lives.

______________________________________________________________________________

Three years later.

I yell to my sister Cristina, “Dámelo!” So she can give me a red fire fighter car that I always play with.

“No, I want it! And I’m not going to give it to you!” she shouts.

“Dejen de pelear!” “Stop fighting!” my mother screams like a lion when she sees her two precious daughters arguing over an insignificant toy.

At the end of the day, she’s my sister, and I love her like a hot summer day … burning in my heart.

_____________________________________________________________________________

Flowers illuminate the gardens, and the sun reflects off the windows. It’s the month of joy and color: May. Javier’s arrival.  He brings us back to that same alarming Mexican hospital room. A shivering room, greeting me again with a menacing smile. Same story repeats. Mother smiles as if all the light in the world converged in one room, a full sun brimming out the sides, out the window, out the crack under the door.

She cradles Javier and quietly tilts him towards me at her bedside, “Miren a su hermanito!” “Look at your little brother!” She beams, quiet and calm.                                                       

My sister and I sit side by side; our eyes make quick, fleeting glances at one another. We say nothing. We stare at the cold, cement floor.

“Do you think mom will still love us?” I ask in a whisper, like if I had nothing else going through my mind but the thought of sharing moms love with my siblings.

“Of course she will!” snaps Cristina without hesitation.

I doubt her confidence.

_____________________________________________________________________________

Mariana’s arrival is different. Now I’m twelve. Older. Cable of understanding more. It’s cold and snowy outside. A snowman with two big rocks for eyes, a carrot as its nose, and beans as its smile, stares at me from outside. A red scarf around its neck and a plain, black hat was the only thing I saw out the window of the hospital room. This is a different room. Nothing compared to the one before. St. Luke’s was the name of the hospital. Modern and full of joy it is. I feel the room smiling at me.  I smile back.

Yet again, the same story repeats. Attention, blankets, sleepers, sweaters, hats, soft clothes and everything are given to Mariana. I feel different. I am a rock, strong, sure and solid.

“Mom, may I hold Mariana?” I ask.

“Sure!” my mom says with a concerned look.                   

Having her in my arms is like eating a caramel apple. Sweet and delicate. My brothers come, and we all hug Mariana together. My heart is pounding. I feel the love. My hair goes back, and I close my eyes.

I open them and just say “Sorry.” My brothers look at me awkwardly like if they don’t know what I’m talking about, but I just laugh and say, “I love you guys.”

They smile at me and they say “We love you too.” My mom calls us over. We go. She says, “Never doubt my love. You guys are in my heart all the time and my love belongs to all of you equally.”

At the end, like a band of angels from heaven we settled and enjoyed each other’s company.