Mari Sánchez Cayuso

Tag: motherhood

  • Roofline: Weatherproof

    I think something inside me
    permanently altered
    the day I left the hospital
    with my oldest son in my arms
    and nowhere to go afterward

    My stomach stitched in perfect lines
    The nurses speaking softly around me
    as if tenderness alone
    could disguise abandonment

    Outside
    families loaded cars carefully

    Fathers adjusting blankets
    Women leaning back into passenger seats
    flowers resting in their laps
    like proof
    they had been carried gently
    through the violence of becoming

    ‘Rooftops’ | Charcoal | Graphite

    And there I stood
    holding my newborn
    trying not to let humiliation
    be the first thing he inherited from me

    So I called a taxi

    I remember the driver asking for the address
    and the terrible realization washing over me

    I did not even have a key
    to enter my own home

    God . .

    Even now
    all these years later
    I can still feel
    the animal panic of it

    Not woman
    Not wife
    Not mother

    Animal

    A creature trying to shelter her newborn
    from storm weather
    with nothing but her own exhausted body

    The taxi dropped us off quietly
    and I remember standing there
    holding my son against my chest
    the evening air cooling the sweat on my skin
    realizing I had nowhere to go

    So my neighbor let us inside

    And something about that moment
    scarred me more deeply
    than childbirth ever could

    Because the physical pain was irrelevant

    None of it compared
    to the humiliation
    of standing outside your own door
    with a newborn in your arms
    feeling less like a human being
    and more like some stray cat
    searching desperately for shelter
    before nightfall

    And the terrible part is
    almost no one knew

    Not my family
    Not friends
    Not even my son

    Especially not my son

    Because I refused
    to poison his love for his father
    with the truth of what happened

    So I swallowed it

    Quietly
    Daily
    For years

    And perhaps that is where
    the real scar formed

    not in flesh
    but in silence

    The performance

    God . .
    how wickedly I fought
    to preserve appearances after that

    I became composed
    Functional
    Capable

    I built warmth around my children
    while privately feeling
    like some weather-beaten creature
    dragging itself through winter
    on instinct alone

    People praised my strength

    They had no idea
    strength sometimes looked like
    crying silently in bathrooms
    washing your face
    then walking back in
    because small eyes were watching
    and you refused
    to let them witness the storm

    ‘Rooftops’ | Charcoal | Graphite

    And maybe that is why
    I dream of rooftops

    Because roofs understand
    what it means
    to endure weather publicly
    while splitting apart slowly underneath

    Rain
    Heat
    Storms
    Lightning

    Still
    from the street
    they appear intact

    Just like I did

    But some nights
    when the world quiets enough
    I can still see her

    that younger version of myself
    stitched closed too quickly
    holding a sleeping newborn
    outside a locked door
    already understanding
    that survival
    was no longer temporary

    It was about to become
    her native language

  • Archived Love

    I still have the backpacks

    Every one of them

    Kindergarten dinosaurs
    faded superheroes
    broken zippers
    ink stains
    the straps worn thin
    from years of carrying
    small important things

    They sit inside plastic totes now
    stacked quietly in the house
    like sealed chapters
    of a life that happened too fast

    Sometimes I open them

    And suddenly
    the years come rushing back

    little lunch boxes
    crumbs at the bottom
    folded spelling tests
    a forgotten pencil
    the smell of childhood
    still hiding faintly in the fabric
    like time never fully left

    People say:
    why keep all of that?

    But mothers understand

    Because those backpacks
    once moved through this house
    attached to small boys
    with untied shoes
    sticky hands
    and entire universes
    still tucked inside their laughter

    I carried them through
    field trips
    divorce
    growing pains
    late-night homework
    broken hearts
    and all the ordinary holy moments
    that disappear before you realize
    they are becoming memory

    Now the house is quieter

    The backpacks do not move anymore
    But when I see them
    I remember this truth

    for a little while
    I was the center
    of somebody’s whole world

    And maybe that is why
    I cannot throw them away

    Because inside those faded bags
    lives proof
    that love once ran wildly
    through these rooms
    calling me Mom

  • Wooden Box

    If I could
    I would place every fear I have for my sons
    inside a small wooden box
    and leave it out in the yard

    I think about that box often

    I imagine it sitting there alone beneath the weather
    the grass growing slowly around it
    rainwater darkening the wood
    August heat opening tiny cracks along the lid

    A plain little box
    holding all the unbearable parts of motherhood

    At first
    the box would have held small things

    Fevers in the middle of the night
    Tiny shoes by the door
    The sound of them crying from another room
    The terrible helplessness of hearing your child cough
    while the whole dark house waits with you

    Back then
    I thought motherhood was about protecting

    I did not yet understand
    that motherhood is mostly about enduring

    ‘Motherhood’

    So the years passed
    and the box grew heavier

    Into it went first heartbreaks
    Late-night drives
    Silences
    The fear that arrives when your children begin
    walking further and further away from your arms

    And now my sons are men

    Men in uniform
    Men standing inside realities
    I cannot soften for them

    ‘Motherhood’

    So now the box holds oceans

    It holds unanswered messages
    It holds the terrible imagination of mothers
    It holds the sound of a phone not ringing
    It holds every silent prayer
    I have whispered into the light

    If I could
    I would leave the box outside forever

    ‘Motherhood’

    I would let rain kneel over it through the night
    Let thunder shake it open
    Let wind carry pieces of my fear away
    through the trees

    I would let winter freeze it stiff
    Let summer split the wood apart slowly
    until the earth itself
    began carrying some of the weight for me

    Because I am tired
    of carrying the box inside my body

    Tired of setting it beside my coffee each morning
    Tired of carrying it room to room invisibly
    while the world continues normally around me

    And still
    when I close my eyes
    the box becomes lighter again

    Inside it

    I find warm little hands clenched in mine
    Their laughter moving through the hallway

    Maybe that is the true shape of motherhood

    a small wooden box
    filled first with tenderness
    then with fear
    then with all the love in the world
    a human being can no longer survive carrying alone

  • Catalina

    The day my mother married

    Hers, weeped

    Futurity of leaving Cuba, gone

    She grieved her only child

    All efforts to bring her home, futile

    Through the years

    And under a fleet of angels

    I saw myself

    Reflected in her

    Superbly waiting for motherhood

    Incessant fire, love that burns

    Like a tower, in me

  • Realities

    My dad would always tell me, repeatedly.

    ‘You don’t pick the wrong men, they pick you’

    This always resonates when finding myself in that sort of situation.

    I’m quite imperfect couldn’t keep a marriage, not for lack of trying.

    Tried to give my sons the illusion of balance. That didn’t last, it was soul crushing.

    My sons are now grown men, and have a clear understanding of my side of the story.

    Yes, there are two sides.

    A high percentage of women leave – to live – not to be with someone else.

    I’ve lived, loved, and raised two men.

    Empty nest, feels loud.

    Their happiness and relationships, validates all efforts.