Every Once in a While

I see her every once in a while. I see her in the photos she’s not included in anymore. I see her in my father’s tattoo, in between his shoulder blades. I see her in the empty chair at family gatherings. I see her in the bracelet that I never take off. I see her in the porcelain sinks in the master bathroom. I see her in the old hand towels in the linen closet. I see her in the pot of water heating on the stove, not boiling, but still too hot to touch. I see her in the “I was only trying to help,”. I see her in my discolored skin; off-white against olive. I see her in the jewelry box she gave me five years ago. I see her when I paint my own nails, and brush my own hair. I see her in my Abuela’s tears, silently streaming down her face as she clutches a faded photo in her wrinkled hands. I see her in the plants, in that tree across the street. The one that hasn’t flowered in years. I see her in the tea that sits at the bottom of the pantry, forgotten. I see her in the hand me downs. I see her in my dreams, pleasant or not. I have started to forget the sound of her voice. I only see her every once in a while.