I’m leaving my mom’s house today. my throat feels like it’s in a vise.
I didn’t do well. I didn’t do all that I could have. I did poorly.

there goes the one my mom calls Charles atlas. he rides his mobility scooter shirtless
to walk his little dog several times a day.

there goes the monk, clearing his throat before starting his morning chants.

things get passed me even though I think I am so vigilant. I’m watching but not always paying attention.
or my attention is weak. it’s the middle of the night in Ca. that’s my excuse for this stupid rambling.

I’m going to see my madrina this morning before I leave, she’s a loving caretaker of my soul but she says harsh things.
there may be tears.
there will be so many tears.


  1. dear Yolie, god, i know how you feel. i guess the thing to remember is it is never enough and always enough. you do what you do from the heart. this feeling you have, which i know so well i could cry, it comes from the desire to make everything okay, our fantasy of okay, but there is no perfect, there is only what is possible. we do the best we can. this thing you feel, it is love.



  2. I want to say don't cry, please don't feel bad, you are so freaking awesome that it seeps right through the internet and you are a great daughter and mother and wife, I just know it. It doesn't mean you're perfect, thank god. Thank fucking god. I couldn't take it if you were.


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