Learning to Celebrate a Birthday
Amanda Rosas
My mother reminds me that hard is hard era after era, and to
call upon the antepasadas who lifted up their fragmented
beings and mashed spirits time and again, grabbing their
leathered journeys by the reigns, still damp and darkened by
perspiration. There was guilt and gratitude in their rituals, in the
decades prayed at dawn.
There was a hunger in the hush of their voices, cautious and worthy.
They imagined my generation like a surprise neatly tucked in a fist
behind the back. Those little girls like me they’d call mijita in their
midnight kitchens. The children who would drink the potency of
opportunity they concocted. The ones, like me, throat tightened
around the daily swallow of living, forgetting our women’s lives
were abundant and panting and all giving. The spirit of their labored
hands surrounds me with the courage of mountain air, shedding
possibility like a breath propelled by light. Another year is going to
happen, they say, so give it a chance, embrace.
Amanda Rosas is a mother, poet and teacher originally from San Antonio. She draws strength and creativity from her Mexican American roots, and from her husband and three daughters. Her poetry and essays have been published by The Latino Book Review, The Front Porch Review and Minnesota Women’s Press. by The Latino Book Review and The Front Porch Review. She dreams of being a full time writer and storyteller.