When I was ten years old, I would crawl into bed with Mama every night. Before we went to sleep, I grabbed her spanish spelling book and we studied El Silabario together. She read the words to me and I repeated after.
"Pa, Pe, Pi, Po, Pu." "Pa como Papá" she'd say.
I read the words over and over because she wouldn't let me sleep until I completely got them right. Though I laid there agitated and hiding my face in the blanket, she would tell me it was for my own good. My Abuelo Adan had done the same with her before the Salvadoran war took his life. Mama told me his story thousands of times; I know every detail.
One day before I could pull out El Silabario, she told me to put it back. I climbed up next to her and she pulled me in against her chest. I closed my eyes and she whispered in my ear:
"Te voy a decir un cuento"
I am going to tell you a story
Mama took a deep breath in and began to tell me about her home in El Salvador. When she was a child, she lived in a house made of sticks and stones. Along with her two brothers, Mama lived with Abuela and Adan underneath a snaty roof bearing the heat of the sun that came in through the windows. Mama told me she spent most of her time sitting outside the door. It was as far as she could get. The civil war was escalating beyond the walls of their fragile home as the neighborhood became dangerous. Though she could never move further, the light of the sun brought her warmth. Flowers were beginning to bloom and the smell of spring emerging put her worries at ease.
At night, everything was different.
Government soldiers patrolled the neighborhood looking to kill anyone who was part of the resistance. Tension was rising as the Salvadoran government failed to improve the living standards of the people. A group named FMLN rose to fight back in plead for resources. To show complete dominance, the government raided neighborhoods killing anyone in sight. Families would run and hide as screams and gunshots echoed across the empty yards. Innocent people were murdered as each day became a battle of survival.
The night robbed everyone of their hopes, paralyzing them with fear.
In the dark, the only thing visible was the smoke from guns ignition. Mama would lay scared hidden underneath her bed waiting for the noise to disappear. She would not move until the only thing she could hear was her heart beating in her chest. It was what Abuela trained had trained her to do.
I lay still wrapped in a red wood blanket and hear the fear in Mama's voice. She articulates each word effortlessly without assessing them twice. The shadow of her childhood lives within her as it reminds her who she is. I feel myself inching closer and panic inside her begins to fade. She continues on.
After an hour, the neighborhood went silent. Mama stood for a minute taking it in. Her fears were gone and the world outside was no longer evil. She stood up to find Abuela until she heard footsteps approaching the door. Her body went limp and she returned to her position under the bed. A masculine voice yelled at Abuela in the front room.
¡Dime en dónde está Adan!
Tell me where Adan is!
Mama's eyes began to water as she waited for Abuela to cry. The house was quiet. The soldier yelled at Abuela once again. This time, Abuela's voice did not miss a beat: "No."
Mama heard Abuela gasp as the soldier grabbed her throat and threw her. The other soldiers in the room began to beat her. She heard Abuela scream with every hit she took. Mama began to cry but could not find a muscle in her to move. For the next 30 seconds, she listened to the soldiers curse and assault her mother. Mama felt weak. All at once, it struck her with incoherence, an inconsistency to her thoughts. Each strike filled her heart with pain as an eternity seemed to pass. Mama listened in until the soldier's footsteps resonated outside of the home. Abuel fralie and wounded, held onto the wall as she stumbled in the room. She had bruises on her neck and blood running down her face. Mama couldn't say anything but ran into her mother's arms.
Adan arrived home later that night with food. He was the leader of the rebellion in their community and possessed the desire to become more. He believed in stealing and murdering for his people as he valued being in control. Because of this, his pride grew each day. Everyone in the resistance had respect for him as he was helping provide for families. Although Abuela was completely in love with him, she and the others could not stand to look at him. The war was changing him and Adan was becoming a different man. He spent days away from home as he admired the attention he was gaining.
One quiet morning, Mama saw Adan sitting outside the door and she sat in his lap. He put his arms around her protectively as they felt the breeze sway through their hair back and forth. Mama was Adan's only little girl; ever since she was born, he was determined to keep her safe. Embraced in this arms was the only place Mama ever felt invincible. Everything seemed to stop - time, conflict, even space - and Mama felt loved.
At that moment, I look up at Mama. A tear falls down her cheek. I feel the wetness of it land on my nose. I pull myself closer and I let her silence ring. Mama wipes her eye and I feel hold me tighter. Her voice trembles as she whispers the ending of the story.
Against the long grass, slain bodies were visible as the neighborhood grew more and more empty of the living. Mama and Adan looked ahead silently watching the sunrise. The sky illuminated a pinkish orange, censoring the ferocity of the dark. Adan pulled a book from underneath him and began to read to Mama. The way his deep voice rumbled in his chest was all that mattered at that moment. Not the war. Not the fear. Not the death. Just Papá and the warmth that radiated from his strong arms.
"Repite después de mi, Pa, Pe, Pi, Po Pu."
Repeat after me
Mama repeats and Adan looks at her with a huge smile.
"Muy bien. Es Pa, Pa como Papá"
