Cármel Zavala Díaz
Mom read the paper at the table as I prepared to leave that afternoon. Our goodbyes have never amounted to much. Not like the goodbyes between her and my brother and sister. Those end with a hug and kiss.
"I'll check on you later, Mom."
"Ok, Mi'ja."
It's not to say that Mom and I aren't close. It's a different kind of close. Atypical.
It's only taken 50 years, but I've finally learned not to take personally what she says to me. Oftentimes, what she says is simply funny. As was the case on this particular afternoon.
"Bueno, ya me voy, Ma."
"Que te vaya bien. Que te vaya mal. Que te pique un animal."
"Que te pique a tí."
"¡A tí, jodida!"
Y así fue que me jodió mi madre.
