By George Espinoza
Saturday at noon, I cram bleached T-shirts inside a dresser,
and rehearse made-up stories, altered anecdotes, excuses
in front of my fogged mirror. Despite the jumble of clothing—plaid boxers,
mismatched socks, crinkled khakis—I step out. In the kitchen,
my parents, in day-job sneakers, sway with ageless, lively spins and twirls
to the drums and saxophones of TV salsa. Their bony fingers tap
magnet-pinned pictures on the fridge: red-and-green sweaters from ‘07 Christmas,
puffed floaties on their boy’s tanned arms, and a candle-lit cake of tres leches.
Our plates steam. Our forks nick. Our knives slice
sirloin steak, peppered and butter-basted, into strips that quiet stomach rumbles,
and here I sit, waving the white flag of my napkin.
My parents mention school and graduate school, and I nod—I can only nod
as they sip their cups of light-sugared lemonade.
Placemats as picturesque as their lifelong plans. Murmurs on last semester’s grades
and next semester’s classes. Their weathered hands scoop forkfuls of a salted, fermented meal.
Utensils as clanky as untuned instruments. I nibble on cilantro,
and lick on the grain of rice stashed between my teeth, but the flickering bulbs
of their eyes spotlight a heckler who boos the orchestra of heart-to-heart conversation.
A ringing doorbell, a tapping of knuckles, or a pickup truck’s honking
could dull the crescendo: I’d like to stay in school, but I don’t know if I will.
I mouth apologies. A cacophony of quarter-life truth.
I’m still and immovable, like a loose strand of hair on a served plate.
My gray-haired parents sink in their chairs.
George Espinoza is an undergraduate student who resides on Long Island, New York. When he’s not poring over his keyboard, he’s grudgingly running in unpleasant weather, daydreaming about food, or watching families of geese generate traffic. His work can be found in DED Poetry. You can find him on Instagram: @george123za
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