Estela - LJ Idol Week 1

Trigger warning: (highlight to read)Death of a Character



Dear Estela,

On the day of your birth, the only thing our parents expected of you was that you live. Which, as you know, is harder to do than it sounds.

The rest of it--the work in the fields on days so hot the sun was a constant weight on your shoulders, the smack of a teacher's ruler against your clumsy fingers, the scrapes and bruises--all of that was just extra. As though mother and father had prayed for life and then forgotten that something had to come after, that it didn't end when they brought you into this world so selfishly. I know no one ever asked if you wanted to be there with the rest of us. We just assumed, as we must, that everyone wants to be part of a family.

You were the oldest of thirteen by default, because Jaime died before he turned two months old, and you drained the life from Sofia. Mother said it, so it must have been true. She said that she burned the snake that grew on your back in thick black curls to set us free. Its home was the dip in your lower back, which housed the burn scar in the shape of a cross for years after. That cross saved us, as you know.

But it didn't save you.

Oh, you told me about how you prayed and God answered. You said that when you left el pueblo to go up north, where the streets shone gold and the lights were green, you prayed that life would get better. You watched as the money came into your hands and away to Mexico so that Beto, the youngest, could go to school. You prayed some more and Faustino showed up, young, handsome, and cruel enough to rip money away from people like us.

But if all prayer got you was Faustino, then God let you down far more cruelly than I would have thought possible.

Sure, you had money and a restaurant because Faustino had money and a restaurant. Over the entrance you hung la virgen de Guadalupe and St. Sebastian, and your tables were drapped in red, white, and green. People came to your restaurant because they missed the sound of their home, and you prayed to God to help them. But you and I both know there is no help for the people who come here, whose hands bleed from the chemicals they handle all day. The same people who got drunk at your restaurant because if they tried hard enough, your food tasted like hot tortillas in the morning, and you beer tasted like Coronas with the compadres in the open backyards of their homes. But that was all just pretend, as you know well. The same way your life with Faustino was just pretend.

He never hit you, you told me, because you were awake every night to make sure he never had a reason to do so. He never touched your daughters because you soothed the way with your prayers, with your soft words, and with those smiles that filled the room with joy. How hard you must have worked, because your daughters were loud and beautiful, ferocious creatures who were told they mattered in life and took it to heart. Faustino never stood a chance against them, against you and your grace, your appeasing nature, your tendency to avoid problems, even when that meant walking away from all twelve of us.

You beat him, the way you beat all of us from the comfort of your deathbed. The beeping machines were the chorus of your triumph, and the smile on your face, when you closed your eyes for the last time, was a most spectacular speech. Your victory sash was the hospital bathrobe that matched with your rumpled hair.

You never looked so regal.

I can't begrudge you for winning. Not when there were scars on your hands from when you missed the weeds with your machete. Not when your eyes were still searching for that green light in the distance, even when it was just the numbers on your oxygen machine. Not when I know that you won because it's over. Because you have become the dream.

Sometimes, that's all some of us get.


With love,
Consuelo