The Window
That open window
in the projects,
To where a mantis
sometimes climbed
eleven stories
to pray.
From where we saw
the Third Avenue El
and fell asleep
to its sound.
Through which the smoke of incense
and aroma of fried pork chops escaped.
And I'd observe Officer Jiménez
(Jiminy to us)
protecting our building,
wishing so often
that he were my father.
Where one could hear
(when I thought
they were most tranquil)
a new eruption
from my parents
and the cries to heaven
of my mother,
"¡Mándame más
si más me merezco!"
"Send me more if that's
what I deserve!"
And I would say, embarrassed,
because the neighbors overheard,
"Shh, mommy,
don't you realize
that God listens to you
and each time you ask that,
He sends us more misfortune?"
From that window
the music of Tito Puente
could be heard
at my birthday parties,
which my friends enjoyed,
because my parents would
give them dance classes,
one, two, cha cha cha.
Through the window,
my canary Pedro escaped
and his little pair Pablo's
heart was broken.
From there, I sometimes watched
my friends' fathers
come home drunk ...
thanking heaven that
it was never mine ...
and mothers with strollers
giving their babies "healthy" air
or pushing their shopping carts
up the hill.
"Silvano," you could hear a mother
call her son to dinner
and if he didn't arrive promptly,
she'd slap him
in front of anyone.
Poor Silvano.
Does he now have a wife
who reminds him of her?
From the window,
our mothers threw quarters
so that we could buy ice cream
and my brother dumped
the spinach he disliked,
while we tried to maintain faces of
"Nothing's happened here."
With the passage of time,
I would greet a little boyfriend
who lived in the opposite building
and my heart would go thump-thump.
But I avoided looking at the building
from where a man hurled himself,
the money from his pocket
arriving a little before he did ...
attracting children to the place
with its metal sound.
I don't know how Galileo
would explain that.
I also didn't look toward
the building where
my father's second cousin died.
It saddened me to think
how relatives had gone
to that apartment,
his body not yet cold,
to empty his clothes closet,
without caring much about
his children or the widow.
I heard through that window
the cries for help
of a young girl,
who was on her way to church
and someone tried to rape.
The neighbors came out
and ran him off.
We protected each another.
I could see the old people
sitting on the benches,
the change in seasons,
incessant splendor
—emerald, gold, silver;
a small corner
of the monastery,
the place where
we caught fire flies
with our hands
to release them
much too soon...
The park where we
played on swings,
the children of immigrants
from so many nations,
hard-working people...
never imagining
that one day
it would make
a good drug point.
That window led to the sky,
although stars could
rarely be seen.
And the groaning noises
of our roller washing machine,
absurdly old-fashioned, escaped,
another uproar that
caused me so much
embarrassment.
But it was that
next year and the next,
for seventeen years,
we would be in Puerto Rico,
so it wasn't worth fixing
or buying anything.
To where the "I love you"
of my fiancé reached,
the one who took me
only six blocks from there.
But, ¡ay bendito!,
for pity's sake,
it was the best he could do.
From where the moon
lit my homework assignment
for the next day.
I sometimes think that
my horizon has changed,
but perhaps it was just
a change of window.
That open window
in the projects
sometimes had chains
to protect the children.
And perhaps to keep adults
From flinging themselves.
It had chains ...
and they bind me still.
