Yogurt

I feel tense and my left side—my arm and my neck—hurt. My mother, when we were children in Buenos Aires, must have felt the same way. She must have felt trapped in a beautiful neighborhood with a life she didn’t want. She never intended to be a housewife or a mother of 3 kids. Last night, when I couldn’t buy the things I had the money to buy, I shook just like she used to shake. She wanted to be free and do her own thing.

I don’t want to be poor and deny myself a simple pleasure like yogurt and/or oatmeal. I couldn’t vent with Lauchita. I held her tight and she comforted me in her kitty way. Her body was warm and understanding in my arms. My mother, when she was frustrated, let off steam in a way that hurt me.

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