The Palm Trees Dance at Night

!

            He hit her across her rosy cheeks, they began to swell into the colors I’d seen when she became furious. “No me hablas así, babosa.” Just barely catching her balance, he hit her again with a closed fist. Continuing to throw punches at her chest, he pulled her hair down, and it was then that she released her screams.

            I was crawling below, in between the two of them, Mother and Apá.

            Crawling in between them for comfort, for safety, not knowing the fight had just begun.

            I looked up.

            Her eyes began to close, her brown curly hair dropped like rocks but stayed put, her face—broken, her eyes closed, the screams pierced into me.

            Apá continued hitting her, pulling her hair, and I continued crying.

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            California, the land of dreams, inside the land of the free, Santiago's motives were etched into his bones.

            Hope and desires.

            "¿Qué quieres hacer mijo?" his mother asked him in the kitchen as she preprepared a snack for both of them, tostadas de frijol.

            "Quiero ir a los Estados Unidos," he hesitantly told her, afraid to break her heart.

            "Mis mejores deseos para ti es que haces lo que tu quieres," she said as her eyes held back tears from the thought of her oldest son leaving home. 

            Who then would wake up in the middle of the night to accompany her?