By Christina Martinez, Senior, Writing & Linguistics
Memories of California roll out across mother’s mind
Just like the map her daddy would have opened on the hood of their car
If he had made it north of his youth: tall, dark, and gone
Road trips end
Mama’s hair pulled back in curlers, midnight locks
Of perms given every two weeks to the three little vagabonds
In the lone bathroom of the house Roy bought mama
To prove he loved her
Mary knew mama loved dancing with Tom
Gallop, New Mexico had always been her home
Daddy, Roy, Tom, and imagining the feeling of realizing
The names meant nothing to her
Made a trip to the grave to reminisce grandpa’s blue eyes
Poking out from under that dusty army green
I never met him, but his portrait sits on the armoire
Handsome and haunting
Marriage certificates that read much like lies, but
The red brick outside our house reads GALLOP
