Dear Papá
Gabriela Martínez
Winner of the 2020 Editors’ Award
aug 2020
after “Watermarks” by Ivelisse Jimenez
When you left San Juan (destination: Boston), I know that your hands shook. Or maybe you did that thing with your right leg, bouncing it up and down without pause.
That flimsy boarding pass held the weight of your great-grandfather (Apa Jongo) working in shipyards, your father (my Abuelito) working to pay off debt and give you the world. The world was in that piece of paper in your trembling hands.
I know you hate turbulence. Every time you have to fly for work (you will have to fly a lot for work), I give you a lucky thing. The lucky thing must always be different. Last year: a Star Wars figurine. Something to hold onto.
You’ll say your fear of planes started after seeing Tom Hanks in Cast Away.
I’ll begin to know another reason. When you go somewhere, you’re always departing from somewhere else. When you’re in the air, you’re stuck between missing what was and anticipating what will be.
You’ll say you found solace in the basement of Lyons Hall, a dingy room brightened only by flashes from the video game machine you frequented when you wanted to be alone.
I’ll imagine a place soaked in red and blue light, illuminating my father 28 years ago. Long hair, new tattoo stinging, a silver earring dangling. A face painted with the brushstrokes of concentration that I recognize—you always want to make things seamless, even when they are falling apart.
You found strength in Apa Jongo’s dreams, so much that they became your own. You’ll tell me about the poem that anchored you and “caminante, no hay camino” will echo in my mind.
I’ll print out three copies, wanting to hold onto something. The world is in this piece of paper in my trembling hands.