Spanish Story Part 1

Born in a world of distress and turmoil, my mother didn’t want me. Why didn’t she want me? There are multiple reasons she has told me, some I love and others I find to be quite offensive. She had never wanted a child, nor had she ever wanted to get married. She was an odd hispanic woman who believed her duty was above all else. No one ever really understood her, there isn’t even much knowledge as to whether or not she had many friends. I can tell you one thing, she didn’t try to get any.
Another reason why she didn’t want me, was because she was too young. She had gotten pregnant by a man she did not love, but loved her deeply. It had been an arranged marriage, because of this arrangment she never wanted to give him a son. She gave him a son and daughter. And she named us both based on herself, based on her name. I never knew what my father’s name was, she wouldn’t tell me and I could only call him dad, until a few years ago. He died in a war. The war that tried to save our country, whether or not he helped I have no idea. I’ve been locked up in a cage all my life. My mother says my name means I should be kept home. My name is Cajo, which if spelled with an a at the end would mean box. She believe that’s what I was, a box, and boxes deserved to be placed in a home. Always.
My sister on the other hand was named Flora. Apparently my mother had a light spot for daughters. She had never wanted a child, but if she could haave any it would be a daughter. She got her wish the first time she was pregnant, and it made her extraordinarily happy. She had been happy for three years, before she had me. Then it went all down hill. My sister and I look almost identical. I’m very short and my sister is as well, we have the same facial features, similar expressions. Some say the only difference between our physical look is her longness of hair.
My mother had always shown interest in anyone. She felt everyone had a talent and they could be anything they wanted, or so that’s how she assumed to the world. When I was ten years old I recognized my wanting to write. She criticized me, told me it would never work out. Told me there would never be a place for me if I started my writing career. She did not try to help me, nor did she want to. My sister had been drawing since she was young, and mother bought her all the equipment for it. She told me I was a man of no character for just wanting to write. There were so many chances for her to have taking my soul, my wanting of writing. The thing which I needed in order to survive. I started when I was eight years old. My first poem was this one:
1

A rainbow falls,
at the end is there a pot of gold?
No thought of it.
Nothing is real2

When father had read that, his reaction was silence. He was speechless, even though it is extraordinarily short. The thought of it, the depth of it makes the piece seem more profound. Or that’s what he said anyway, I never understood those sort of words. I had just nodded my head.
When my mother had read my poem. She scoffed and laughed, telling me to go water the plants in the garden. I had done as I was told, I always listen to my mother. Even when she puts me down and places all the blame on me. I listen to her. The first time she had told me I would never amount to anything in writing, I stopped. I didn’t write a single thing for years. She poisoned my soul in writing. It had almost died, until that one day in my second year of high school. The first time I had a crush. First time I felt someone outside of my family loved me, wanted me, cared about me. She had broken my heart, into a million pieces.
The day when my heart was broken, all I could do was cry. Cry my heart out for the one who had broken me. For the one who had left me for another guy. I didn’t think of writing, I didn’t think of doing anything. All I thought about was the tears, the intensified tears flowing down my face.
My father had still been alive. He was sick, but still there for me if I needed him. He walked into my room and saw my tears soaking the pillow. If mother had walked in, she would have pounded me to the bed. Telling me men don’t cry, they are being a wuss when they even think about crying. Father knew this. He knew that mother would be coming into the house soon, seeing my face soaked in tears.
“Son. Dry your eyes, clean off your face and come back in here when you’re done.” I dried my eyes and went to the kitchen cleaning my face with the putrid water. Then I took a tablecloth and dried my face off, the house was filled with a negative smell, but you were still able to clean yourself. I sat in the exact same position my father was sitting when I got into the room. He was sitting with his legs crossed on the bed. “I don’t know what has happened to you son, but I do know what you can do to help you.”
“What is that father?”
“Write.” With that one word he stood and exited the room. I was left in abandon, I had no idea what he was talking about. Forgetting my soul, forgetting when I had wanted to write. Forgetting those tiny poems sitting in my desk. Rotting away in the bottom drawer of my desk. I had forgotten the feel of being complete once the words had escaped from his thoughts to his pencil, to the piece of paper underneath the lead. He got up from his position and rummaged through his desk. Finding them he began to read. They were so tiny in his eyes, and he just had the urge to write something. Explain the way he was feeling at this precise moment. He sat down and wrote feeling his heart mending in every word.3