last night, my mom went to her high school reunion. she stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the straps of her dress, tilting her head the way she does when she’s deciding if she still belongs in a room she hasn’t yet entered.
she does. she always has.
her Spanish beauty, unchanged. the same dark eyes that watched over me when I was small, when she worked late shifts and early shifts and any shifts that kept us afloat.
she grew up in Washington Heights. her father left when she was young, so it was just her and abuela, holding things together. college had to wait. dating, too. she worked. she dreamed of becoming a kindergarten teacher. slowly, with time and side jobs and more ganas (that deep-down drive to keep going when nothing comes easy), she made it happen. she met the love of her life — my dad — on the number 3 subway line. he died before I was born. another heartbreak. another beginning.
she became a teacher. she raised me mostly on her own, with abuela’s hands steadying us both. little did she know what a storm I would become.
I think about my own reunion, a few years from now. the kids from school, nearly finished with college. their neat lives ahead of them — careers, mortgages, the soft glow of porch lights in the suburbs. and me. a musician, a donut shop worker, a regular in therapy rooms where we take turns unraveling.
I do not say this with shame.
some people build their lives like blueprints, neat lines and careful measurements. others, like me, wander into theirs, leaving behind songs and relapse journals, fingerprints on instruments, the echo of laughter in empty places.
we don’t all walk straight lines. some of us take the long way toward becoming.
my mother walked out the door, radiant, belonging. one day, I will too. and when I do, I hope someone sees me the way I saw her — whole, and quietly shining.
cookie nieves 
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