The Time Momma Gave Me the Chancla for Letting Andrew Jackson Escape Out the Window
it is 12:00pm we arrive home from sunday church i am the last person to enter through the door & mom yells cierra la puerta the AC is running which means she just put in seventy hours of work this week to pay the bills which means to feel cold is a privilege a ghost visit thanks to mom’s labor of love a desperation to put pan & milk on the table for her four daughters one time in the boiling summer of 1999 mom gave me the chancla for leaving the window open she swore she saw a flock of dollar bills fly out the window & soar through the sky the tip of each green wing printed with the number twenty & on their bellies an image of andrew jackson waving a farewell & outside they flew & outside the sun burnt each thin paper bird to a crisp before they could find freedom & claim it their own i still remember the bruise on my left butt cheek when i failed foil the windows to keep the devil out & it was almost as hot then as it is right now but inside the house the house is breathing a cold breath how blessed to know the luxury of shiver to know the taste of snow in a place it does not exist
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