WE HAD TO WAIT OVER TWO HOURS AT THE DOCTOR’S office.
But my mom and I came prepared. I brought the book of poems Dante had brought over, the book of poems by William Carlos Williams—and Mom, she brought a novel she was reading, Bless Me, Ultima.
I was sitting across from her in the waiting room and I knew that sometimes, she was studying me. I felt her eyes on me. “I didn’t know you liked poetry.”
“It’s Dante’s book. His father has poetry books all over the house.” “It’s a wonderful thing, what his father does.”
“You mean being a professor?” “Yes. How wonderful.”
“I guess so,” I said.
“When I went to the university, I never had one Mexican-American professor. Not one.” There was a look on her face, almost anger.
I knew so little about her. About what she’d been through—about what it felt like to be her. I’d never cared, not really. I was starting to care, starting to wonder. Starting to wonder about everything.
“You like poetry, Ari?” “Yeah. I guess I do.”
“Maybe you’ll be a writer,” she said. “A poet.”
It sounded like such a beautiful thing when she said it. Too beautiful for me.
