Stories from The Moon / Cuentos de la Luna

You probably don’t remember this, but it happened every Sunday between 10 and 11:30 am. Roughly. Back then, I’d still single you out from a group of men and proudly call you my father. On Sundays, I’d walk into your room, wake you up, and tell you it was time. I’d follow you into the kitchen, your Nokia pressed against your right ear. I don’t remember you looking at me or saying good morning. You’d open the refrigerator door with your left hand and reach for three eggs. Then you’d go for the fruit basket on the kitchen counter and choose one big, smelly tomato. I’d sit at the table watching you cook an omelet much too big for a five-year-old daughter. 

This is what I remember about the short time I had a father: your tall back shown through a navy blue, velvet robe. You’d add salt to the pan of eggs while talking to someone who wasn’t me. When the sizzle ended, you’d place the eggs on a plate and signal with the black Tefal spatula for me to come to get it. I’d look at the time in the microwave and eat as slowly as possible to keep you there with me. Every couple of bites, you’d cover the receiver on your phone and mouth I need to get to work. Work—how could I know?—was a woman. I’d pretend to like what you’d cooked while noticing your receding hairline. You’d look down at the table as if ashamed to watch me eat. I remember the gooey yellow and the thin, chewy tomato peel in my mouth. You probably don’t even remember that I never liked tomatoes, do you?