Diamonds for My Daughters

Sometimes you think about her hands.

Sometimes, before the sun hits the sky, you sit at the kitchen table, crimping empanadas with your brown, bony hands and wonder if hers are soft and thin, as white woman hands should be.

Sometimes, when you knead the pasty white dough, you wonder if she is paler, and if she too was soft in all the right places. When the sharp smell of coriander and cumin tickles your nose, you wonder if their necks and wrists smell of vanilla and flowers. He would know, you think, as you dig your knuckles deep into the dough, over and over again.

Sometimes, as you prepare the counter space with a sprinkle of harina, you glance at how it settles into the crevices of the pale blue ring that sits on your middle finger. Three blue stones in a line, each separated by diamonds. You picture her eyes sparkling just the same. You remember receiving that ring after woman #3. Or was it #4?

Sometimes, when you hand off the empanadas to the white men from down the block, you begin to think maybe he would love you more if you knew English. But he loves you enough. As the gringos say ‘thank you,’ one of the few words you know, and hand you an envelope filled with money, you wonder if they find you attractive. You wonder if he finds you attractive. The years have not been kind to your aching body.

Sometimes you wish you were younger.

Sometimes you wish you were whiter.

Sometimes you wish you could scrub the dirt color from your skin and find a fresh canvas as smooth as milk underneath. You apply lotion religiously, hoping it will make even the slightest difference when competing against the others. There are always others.

Sometimes you think about your empanadas, the ones you spend hours making and perfecting, just for them to be consumed by the very people who fear you in their neighborhood. You stuff them with beef, olives, hard-boiled eggs and home-grown red peppers, and wonder about the baby boy he stuffed inside woman #6. You only have daughters.

Sometimes, before you knew differently, you prayed that America would be the answer.

Sometimes, as you collect your daughter’s dirty socks from their bedroom floor, you fall into your memories, retreating to a time before you packed everything and left home. You imagine the faded blue house you shared with him, the one that sat on one of the larger hills in Valparaiso, overlooking the sea. Alone, you used to watch the fisherman scoop up muscles and catch salmon and bass from your balcony. You would watch the large red and brown barges crawl across the horizon and wonder if the ship he worked on looked the same. In his absence, you would breathe in deep, allowing the salty air to fill your heart.

Sometimes you hoped all the women would disappear after you made it to the promised land. You had thought that after two years, two long years, breaking his back in exchange for a spot in paradise, he would be ready to put family first. Brooklyn hardly seems like paradise.

Sometimes you look at the solid gold Rolex on his wrist and wonder if jewelry is the only currency he knows.

Sometimes you are sure he lies awake at night dreaming of the days he spent abroad, wooing short skirts and full breasts.

Sometimes, while you sliver the fresh strawberries for his dessert, you wonder if she ever cooked for him, if any of them did. After slicing and slicing and slicing with practiced speed, it is a wonder you haven’t cut yourself after all these years.

Sometimes, as you sprinkle sugar over the plump berries, you grind your teeth, pondering why your goods are never sweet enough.  You understand that one can get tired of arroz con pollo when tempted with Norwegian chocolate. Some women are treats while others are reliable. The strawberries are ready at the same time they always are.

Sometimes you try to pretend that the other women do not exist, but each ring, necklace and bracelet reminds you of their fingerprints on his skin, their fingerprints on your skin. They remind you of your children, stacking birthday cards he sent from overseas and postcards filled with empty promises in boxes that they stash beneath the beds they share.

Sometimes you wish he never came back.

Sometimes you wish he would never leave.

Sometimes, many years later, you send your thoughts up to the heavens and hope he is watching you sort through those tainted jewels. You hope he watches you shower your daughters and their daughters with sapphires, rubies, diamonds, and gold. You hope he watches as their fingers and earlobes shimmer with the legacy of his betrayal. Thousands of dollars worth of diamonds and tears, passed on to the next generation.

Sometimes you hope he feels shame, for they know the truth of the jewels they wear.