Diamonds for My Daughters Kathryne McCann
Content Warning: cheating and infidelity Sometimes you think about her hands. Sometimes, before the sun hits the sky, you sit at the kitchen table, crimping empanadas with your brown, bony hands and wonder if hers are soft and thin, as white woman hands should be. Sometimes, when you knead the pasty white dough, you wonder if she is paler, and if she too was soft in all the right places. As you prepare the counter space with a sprinkle of harina, you glance at how it settles into the crevices of the pale blue ring that sits on your middle finger. Three blue stones in a line, each separated by diamonds. You picture her eyes sparkling just the same. You remember receiving that ring after woman # 3. Or was it #4? Sometimes, when you hand off the empanadas to the white men from down the block, you begin to think maybe he would love you more if you knew English. But he loves you enough. As the gringos say ‘thank you,’ one of the few words you know, and hand you an envelope filled with money, you wonder if they find you attractive. You wonder if he finds you attractive. The years have not been kind to your aching body. Sometimes you wish you were younger. Sometimes you wish you were whiter. Sometimes you wish you could scrub the dirt color from your skin and find a fresh canvas as smooth as milk underneath. You apply lotion religiously, hoping it will make even the slightest difference when competing against the others. There are always others. Sometimes you think about your empanadas, the ones you spend hours making and perfecting, just for them to be consumed by
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the very people who fear you in their neighborhood. You stuff them with beef, olives, hard boiled eggs and home-grown red peppers, and wonder about the baby boy he stuffed inside woman #6. You only have daughters. Sometimes, before you knew differently, you prayed that America would be the answer. Sometimes you wear the pearls he got you five years ago, before you packed everything and left home, and try to reverse time. He sent them by mail to your old apartment that sat on one of the larger hills in Valparaiso, overlooking the sea. You used to watch the fisherman scoop up muscles and catch salmon and bass from your balcony. In his absence you would breathe in deep, allowing the salty air to fill your heart. The pearls feel unnatural around your neck. Sometimes you hoped all the women would disappear after you made it to the promised land. You had thought that after two years, two long years, spent in the cold, breaking his back in exchange for a spot in paradise, that he would be ready to put family first. Brooklyn hardly seems like paradise. Sometimes you look at the solid gold Rolex on his wrist and wonder if jewelry is the only currency he knows. Sometimes you are sure he lies awake at night dreaming of the days he spent abroad, wooing short skirts and full breasts. Sometimes, while you slice the strawberries for his dessert, you wonder if she ever cooked for him, if any of them did. As you sprinkle sugar over the plump berries you selected after lifting every container up for inspection at the fruit stand on the corner, you grind your teeth, pondering why your goods
