Bag with Cherry Print

He’s devoted his life,

to collecting the past,

antiques in every corner

of his house.

Drink out of antiques,

read out-of-print books,

use antique appliances,

framed antique art,

makes his walls worth

hundreds of thousands. 

Ironically,

the past haunts him,

he wants to escape,

the memories,

of abandonement, violence,

loss, death, racism, and the wonder

and confusion of a six-year old,

en la frontera, then travelling

around the country in migrant camps. 

When I sold my house

and moved into my condominium,

he cried.

“Apartments are dangerous,” he said,

wiping tears and sweat from his face,

“you don’t know who lives there, and

you see terrible things. I don’t want

the boys to experience that.”

“But it’s a condo Dad,” as I thought

of my underground parking, central AC,

pool and gym. 

“It’s dangerous m’ija, it’s dangerous.

You don’t know the things I’ve seen,

where so many people live together.”

This weekend, before I left,

he brought me this heavy antique tray,

inlayed with abalone, with ornate handles. 

I will add this to my collection of items

he has gifted me in the last year. 

I put on my lipstick, fix my hair, put

on my designer sunglasses, and get ready to

leave. 

He walks toward me,

big, ole’ white grocery bag

with a cherry print in hand,

and starts to put the tray in.  

“Dad, I’ll just carry the tray

on the train like that.”

“No, no. You need something to carry it in.”

“No really. It’s cramping my style.  Look how

sharp I look and you want me to carry this

ugly bag with a cherry print? The tray is pretty.

It looks cool just like that.”

He wouldn’t have any of it.

I got in his truck

and put the bag on my lap,

and as I sat on the bench,

waiting for the train,

I discreetly took the tray out

of the bag,

folded the cherry bag

and put it

in my backpack.