If They Take Her

If They Take Her

My mom does not drive me to school

anymore.

Instead, she lingers behind curtains,

watching the world move

without her.

Her feet, once steady on grocery store tiles,

now refuse to step past the front door.

She hands me the list—

milk, tortillas, diapers—

and I go in her place.

My grandma's hands

should smell of masa,

her voice should yell out,

“Tamales! Champurrado!”

But her corner by the grocery store—

where hands once reached for warm plates,

is empty.

Her stove, cold.

The streets are too dangerous for a woman with no papers,

only recipes.

Inside, I move through the aisles,

list in hand

Milk, tortillas, diapers.

I go in her place.

At night, my mom whispers

of a paper she must sign.

Papers that would name me guardian,

words that prepare for a future

where she is missing.

My sister is eight. My mom wonders

if her legs are strong enough to walk alone.

If I am strong enough

to become her mother.

I wonder how a country can call her a

criminal

when she has built so much of it with

her hands.

I wonder,

if they take her, who will I become?

Dalila Martinez © 2025