This is a piece about my place in the world and how, as a member of Generation F, I do (and don’t) fit in. The piece is based on my family’s home daycare and my grandfather’s illness.
Home smells like cherry lip gloss
Lip gloss for the impressionable elementary school girls
Diapers for the babies and bubblegum lollipops for the toddlers
Here is the place of alternatives
But cherry lip gloss is how they try to impress me
Home smells like menthol
Menthol like the witches’ medicinal vapor rub to dress the sick
Diffused camphor and eucalyptus
Here is the place where there are no alternatives
but menthol is impressed upon his chest
Home sounds like tantrums
Tantrums like screams of frustration and crying outburst
Sometimes the bursts of laughter
Sometimes screeching claims and blames
Sometimes a scuffle of discoordinated jumping
Following, the downstairs neighbor’s thumping on his ceiling/my floors
Home sounds like an oxygen concentrator
Oxygen concentration like the wheezing and coughing of a grown man
Sometimes like the outburst of gasping for air
Sometimes the faded tantrums
Sometimes the sound of the repeated mariachi song
Sometimes the loud shuffling of dominoes and his victory chant
Home tastes like movie popcorn
Movie popcorn, cheerios or oreos
Cafeteria trays with veggies, proteins and sweets
And here the food ends in crumbs and cups spill
These children use my home as a movie set production
At least there are snacks in this little home of mine
Home tastes like Caribbean cuisine Caribbean cuisine
like mondongo, mofongo or sancocho
Mountains of rice and protein and sweets
His own unshared cookies, cakes and candies
And here in the wheelchair his tastes are childlike
Replacing the cigarettes he smoked as a child
Home looks like scattered toys
Scattered toys like blocks, books and teddy bears
And here is the place of colorful alphabet mats and checkered patterns
The ethnic dolls and the frugal child merchant with plastic foods
And this framed holiday card of the previous and current nursery kids
Home looks like a living room
A living room with a dying man
And here is the place of his faded alphabet and checked memories
The native prayers to the children he surpassed in livelihood
And this holiday card from his now-adult kids
Home feels like ooey gooey slime
Ooey gooey slime like sticky, indestructible furniture
The feeling of the kids’ confusion in a hanged-man game
To feel as if I am a kid again in this place of
Shatterproof vases and untied laces
Untangled manes and the sticky glue-dot remains
Home feels like living in asphyxiation
I am forbidden to see him choking out a cough of help
I do not find the hanged man pitiful or sick or weak
He is merely trying to grasp a few more breaths
with no fear of death
Where am I in this home?
I feel guilty for even asking that
But sometimes I feel lost between worlds