El Pinalito, Chihuahua
Francisca Garcia Moore 1897
Your birth must have incensed your father.
After three daughters born consecutively,
one more was unacceptable.
Useless.
He was a mean son of bitch.
You were torn from your mother’s breast,
removed, rejected.
Thrown onto a different path than the one that was rightfully yours.
A much quieter one, full of secrets and questions
with no answers.
I imagine you as a little girl, quiet, observant,
both still and dancing amongst the majestic
landscape of the Sierra Madre.
Did you lose yourself in the wonders around you?
Unsupervised and curious?
Fostering your inherent freedom?
I know that quiet and solitude far too well.
I wonder what it must have been like for your mother.
To be so afraid that she had to send you away
almost immediately.
There must have been love in her effort to protect you.
Did some part of you sense that?
Did you feel longing? Anger? Emptiness? Confusion?
You never did take that mountainous road back home.
Not once.
Was there ever forgiveness or understanding?
Compassion?
What were the ramifications when you became a mother?
Are they still present within my cells?
