I Come From

I come from a land of palmtrees, oranges and loud talk,
a sunny land, Mediterranean,
a land of fire, happy songs and blue skies
where grandmas take care of their grandchildren
and cook the best dishes in the world.

I come from too many presents at Christmas,
big birthday parties, balloons, endless photographs,
excursions to the zoo, museum visits and long roadtrips.

I come from the flamenco on the streets of Andújar,
the long hikes in the mountains,
the ballet dances, the basketball matches,
chocolate con churros, the most beautiful fireworks you could imagine,
the late swims at Benicassim beach,
and the roses and the crickets in my grandparents' garden.

But I also come from the smell of incense,
from standing up in church and repeating words
over and over,
being a good quiet girl,
having nobody to play with
and being told to shut up each time my voice didn't allow my dad to hear the news.

I also come from the civil war stories my grandma used to tell me
while I sat at the kitchen table and ate my merienda, 
the radio playing in the background.

I also come from gigantic piles of stuff
that fulfilled my parents' desire of abundance and success
and kept them too entertained to see me:
blank canvases, colourful canvases,
full magazines, cut magazines,
new toys, broken toys,
adult clothes, baby clothes,
clothes that fit me, clothes that didn't,
shoes that made me wounds, shoes that didn't,
good food, expired food,
and papers, loads of papers.

I also come from my mother's envy
and from the baths my dad gave me,
followed by the comforting warmth of the hairdryer.

I also come from daily arguments that sound like crushed eggs on the floor,
constant threats of leaving, internet refuge, a mother-ghost,
and everyday dreams of becoming an adult.