I don't recognize her. This is not the woman I knew so round and made-up with her hair always a wavy jet black! I stay back until she opens her arms to me - this strange and familiar woman - her voice hoarse, "Ay mi'jita!" Instinctively, I run into her arms, still holding back my insides. "Don't cry. Don't cry", I remember. "Whatever you do, no llores." But my ta had not warned me about the smell, the unmistakable smell of the woman, mi mam, el olor de aceite y jabn and comfort and home. "Mi mam." And when I catch the smell I am lost in tears, deep long tears that come when you have held your breath for centuries.

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About Cherre L. Moraga

Cherre L. Moraga.

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