When I could not stop crying—too much light,
too much noise, too cold, too hot, too small
to know what was wrong—you lifted me so I
rested my head on your shoulder, my tummy
pressing against your body, you sang “Hush,
Little Baby” until your soothing voice lulled
my fright and I felt safe upon your chest.

I took my first steps into your outstretched arms
and licked my first taste of cake from your fingers
when I turned one. You loved to sit me on your lap
and read “You and Me, Little Bear,” every time
that I said “Again.”

You let me sit on a kitchen highchair next to you
while you cooked paella and I asked you if I could
help; you gave me cut pieces of grapes and bananas
when the smell of the sofrito made me hungry. You
stayed with me when I was sick and could not go to
school. If I was scared, you sat at the end of my bed
until I went to sleep.

Three months ago, you were taken to the hospital
with a virus called Corona, but there was no crown,
no throne, nor subjects to visit you there. I wanted
to grab your wrinkled hands and put cream and a
bandage wherever it hurt, like the time you hit your
leg on the leg of your bed and your skin scraped off.
I wanted to show you the new books I had read since
school closed and we must stay at home. But I could
not see you through the tall screen of fear that separated
you from me.

Now that mamá has said you are gone forever
I just want to know, what will I do without you?