Huminta

The men sat like little ducks in a line and dared not move or speak. They bogged the quiet with low grunts and coughs. Usually they laid back, cupping their bellies. They all asked what the fuss was about in a groan—a celestial body between one man and another—though they’d groan at similar times.

At the kitchen table they sat angry-looking and staunch to the head. And they talked until nightfall, at which point they fucked their wives with lemon meringue pie between their teeth, sucking the sweetness and falling asleep. The men did this until their groins grew abscessed and their teeth tired.

But here, with nothing at all but grunts and coughs, they sat, startled children, and waited in Oma’s living room. I thought, make room on the couch! But the men soldered themselves together. On the shoulder of one etched the body of another.

Hey! That’s me! a man would say, and realize he was alive. He could get used to the feeling.

So the five delighted men pressed into each other on a sofa for three. They melded like hot wax, their limbs forgetting their torsos forgetting their heads. And when they sniffed and wiped their noses, scratched the stubble on their chins and balls, it was easy to mistake a body for a body in some other place.

The men took joy in touching each other at last, becoming one.

But the world wouldn’t see because Oma’s living room was beautifully congealed in a yellow-painted house on the corner. She used to step outside and blow bubbles for the neighboring children, who danced around her fertile garden.

Across the street was St. Mary’s Catholic Church, of which Oma was devoted and fond. To the left, a pizza parlor, which she frequented almost as often. But she was young then; in Oma’s new shortness of breath, it became awfully hard to blow bubbles for children, which depressed her. Her yellow paint peeled in the sun.

While the men sat and touched themselves, the house felt sweltering hot and the windows stayed shut to preserve Oma’s precious smell.

From my pool of sweat, I stood to greet her in bed. I walked beside my weeping mother to Oma’s pinky bedroom at the end of the hall.

When my mother and I were girls, she cried to Oma all the time. Oma softened the protective exoskeleton that grew for me. My mother curled her toes and clung to her Mami. She watched the window and sobbed. She sucked her thumb to fall asleep, and Oma patted her wispy hairs.

Now, Oma died with her eyes open. Like an upward wax figure laid horizontally. Mami hunched over. I mimicked the hunch. I put my fingers on Oma’s eyes and stuck them down. Her mouth begrudgingly dropped like she was shocked to be mortal.

Huminta, get out of the way! Two men I’d never seen before knocked on Oma’s pinky door and walked in. They checked her pulse to pronounce her dead.

Yep. Can we use the sheet? They’d ask as if waiting for an answer. Then, slinging Oma off her bed, they dropped her on a black fabric and pulled straps taut around her body. She was hoisted on their shoulders and lugged away.

Even ten years ago, I kissed Oma’s cheeks like a ripe fruit of which I was afraid to bruise. So gently were we expected to touch her.

The man who carried her at the front lost his footing, and Oma knocked against the doorframe like a rock.

Sorry ladies, he looked at us, tapping her again against the wall with the turn of his shoulder.

They left and passed my grunting Tios on the couch, who continued touching each other.

My mother and I waited in the room until her smell defused.

Days later, I saw Oma’s bed and decided to lay in it. The plush of her pillow felt like anesthesia; the ceiling closened in the deeper I sank.

Suddenly Oma stood beside me. She wore my own clothes, which I would have objected to if it were possible to move!

Do not wear my clothes!

Oma watched me and put her hand on my stomach.

YOU ARE HUNGRY, she nodded to herself and lifted my shirt off her body.

We laid in bed together naked and I felt quite warm. Oma had that type of intrinsic motherhood that warmed me even after her death. We were connected. I felt my body swell and deflate like a balloon. I inflated.

Oma looked intently at my open mouth and placed a finger on my bottom row, sliding it up and down like I was a bone marimba. I shriveled. She used her pinkie to wiggle a tooth loose.

Look! It dropped in her palm.

Oma looked younger here. And glowy. She was radiant and controlling my accordion body, folding me inwards and outwards. She continued pulling teeth until there were none left. I felt that pulsing pain and the taste of copper. Each tooth was likened to pearls and placed gently beside Oma on her bedside table—next to pictures of my mother.

My hair began to thin and my nose scrunched. I would shrink to baby size. Oma placed a gentle hand on the back of my head and fed me her milk. I looked up at her and closed my eyes.

I enveloped in her womb and felt her liquid crib.