Dividir: To Divide -Judith Ortiz Cofer
After the rumors about the fake-blond widow
next door, she chose pride; he, humility.
That was twenty years before he died
surrounded by his children and all the others
who loved the old man--silenced long before
by a woman's cold eyes.
She chose pride. She would accept
no help hauling groceries, small children,
and whatever load she carried home
up that steep hill to the house
they had in common. He would try at first,
hands outstretched like Christ's helper
in the fifth station of the cross.
But she preferred pain to compromise.
He chose humility. And it worked.
The grandchildren, accustomed to the rages
of women, saw our tiny selves reflected
in his sad eyes, punished like him
beyond our petty crimes; in her hard gaze,
there was a stone husband, frozen
in the act. We watched her work
in fury, cook the endless meals, press
his clothes as if his back were on the board,
each slam of the iron making it quiver
on its thin legs.
When he fell ill, she stood guard
in the hall outside his room, forbearing
all night on a straight-back chair,
directing the flow of doctors and despairing kin
with the calm eyes of a sphinx. And finally,
alone with him--did she catch his last breath
and hold it in her lungs until
she absorbed the soul of a man
who would never again wander?
I heard that she had kissed him
when he was gone. Then, kneeling by the bed,
washed and annointed his still body.
Taking it back.
next door, she chose pride; he, humility.
That was twenty years before he died
surrounded by his children and all the others
who loved the old man--silenced long before
by a woman's cold eyes.
She chose pride. She would accept
no help hauling groceries, small children,
and whatever load she carried home
up that steep hill to the house
they had in common. He would try at first,
hands outstretched like Christ's helper
in the fifth station of the cross.
But she preferred pain to compromise.
He chose humility. And it worked.
The grandchildren, accustomed to the rages
of women, saw our tiny selves reflected
in his sad eyes, punished like him
beyond our petty crimes; in her hard gaze,
there was a stone husband, frozen
in the act. We watched her work
in fury, cook the endless meals, press
his clothes as if his back were on the board,
each slam of the iron making it quiver
on its thin legs.
When he fell ill, she stood guard
in the hall outside his room, forbearing
all night on a straight-back chair,
directing the flow of doctors and despairing kin
with the calm eyes of a sphinx. And finally,
alone with him--did she catch his last breath
and hold it in her lungs until
she absorbed the soul of a man
who would never again wander?
I heard that she had kissed him
when he was gone. Then, kneeling by the bed,
washed and annointed his still body.
Taking it back.