“We must love one another whether or not we die.
Love can’t block a bullet, but it can’t be destroyed by one either…”

– Jameson Fitzpatrick

The thin packet of paperwork in my hands brings me to an island of apartments in the midst of three busy streets. The mother does not speak English. Even when she wears sweatpants, I hunch beside her–a frumpy buffoon.

I twist my tongue into Spanish for her but she does not like me. I do not realize this until years later, when I am a mother myself.

I am young and insufferable; all ideas and no ears. Like them I come from somewhere quieter, more beautiful; marooned in this loud city of polite smiles that never reach the eyes. We are both so lonely. At least we have that in common.

#

I sit on her couch, one of her daughters on either side. They exclaim over my colorful nails.

So before each visit, I pull out little bottles of polish. I paint each finger a layer of the rainbow. Mine are farm girl hands and my brush is unsteady–the paint chips and bleeds. The girls do not care.

They hold my hands and show me their dolls, their drawings. They are bright and beautiful as birds.

Each visit the mother lists for me all the ways that they are not enough.

#

The mother has three sons: the king, the artist, and the forgotten rose. I do not learn about the third son for a while. I am here for the artist.

We kick a soccer ball in the courtyard. Women in colorful dresses pass, boxes balanced on their heads. We call our hellos to each other, smiles flashing like road flares.

Children appear from all sides. We are running back and forth– ball skipping, bouncing. I am a giant. We are all laughing. Windows around the courtyard slam open. Adults lean their heads out to cheer us on in a rainbow of tongues.

#

The mother makes us hot ponche to carry in plastic cups that warm our hands. The artist and I walk down gray sidewalks, traffic hissing warnings at our side. He reads to me the hieroglyphics of graffiti on every surface. We walk a borderline, a warzone between two gangs–one of which is family.

We pass a man with cold eyes in a crosswalk. The artist steps in front of me, protective, though at this time he is only eight years old. He tilts his chin to the passing man, gaze measuring, steady. A warrior.

I wonder if I am seeing the artist’s future.

#

I teach the artist how to make pancakes. He is so careful with his measure, stir, pour. So proud.

The mother frowns.

#

As the years pass, the mother “loses” my number at least once a month. The artist cries so hard that his older brother, the family’s patient pre-teen king, coaches him through how to memorize it.

The artist recites my phone number to me like a poem. See, he tells me, now I will not lose you ever again.

#

There is a drawing on the corkboard in their kitchen of four roses where there should be five. The artist tells me that his father sent it as a gift from prison…but he forgot the third brother (who is exiled to live with their grandparents). I am warned several times about the forgotten rose. He is violent.

One day I meet him, surprised to find him charming, bright–smiling indulgently at his younger brother. Until the artist looks away. Then I am frozen to the bone by the cobra in his eyes, the sudden strike of cold loathing he locks onto mine.

Can you trust your animal inside–doe scenting danger in a field, wolf sensing panther? Do we battle?

I am not the mother you deny, ache to slice from your rejected flesh. The stories, with sudden clarity, make sense.

I want to tell him: your mother does not like me either.

#

The artist has just visited his father in prison. He does not want the father to come home, but he does not like the mother’s new man. The children are afraid.

The mother will not listen.

Every time I make plans to visit, the mother makes sure that they are not home. One day, standing once again at a locked door after a two bus ride and a long day at work…

I give up.

#

The artist and I meet one last time, to say goodbye.

We cry, side by side on his front step, watching the traffic blur. Though I try to stay in touch for years–leaving voicemails on the mother’s phone, emailing, mailing letters and birthday cards…

I never hear from them again.

Linea Jantz has worked in a wide range of roles over the years including waste management, medical records, paralegal, teacher, and most recently freelance writer. Her writing is featured or forthcoming in publications including The Dyrt Magazine, The Spokesman Review, Singletracks, Lines + Stars Journal, and NonBinary Review. Her poetry was featured in the ARS POETICA juried art exhibit at Blowing Rock Art History Museum and has received a nomination for Best of the Net.