The Mountain My mother said that out of all five of her children I was the easiest baby I think what she meant was that I hardly cried, Rarely fussed And was generally asleep Which I guess was a good thing, for her As the fourth of five she had a lot to deal with before she could get to me So I made it easier for her I kept doing it as I grew up If one of my siblings dropped their ice cream, I’d give them mine so they’d stop making a scene When someone had to sit in a middle seat You can bet that’s where my car seat would be strapped In fifth grade, when Clara Gomez stole my cookie from my lunch box I just shrugged, and ate my carrot sticks My nickname was “montañita”, little mountain Because I was never moved, never bothered, always calm In seventh grade, I broke my leg But I didn’t tell anyone for three days I just gritted my teeth and hopped along Until my father found me crying on the bathroom floor He took me to the hospital, and bought me a cast we couldn’t afford And when the kids at school called me a cripple Well, you can guess what I did In high school, my little sister Sofia was getting picked on by some boys I pretended I didn’t see it happen But that night, I switched out her too-small uniform skirt for mine She stopped getting teased, And I wore pants for the rest of the year When my college Algebra professor lost my test and made me retake it, I just nodded and did it When I got catcalled walking across campus, I just looked down at the ground And you The first day you came up to me and offered to buy me coffee I was sure you were making fun of me too So I stayed quiet Eventually, you flashed me that blinding smile and told me, “Guess I’ll take that as a yes, then.” I think I said about three words to you that first day But I gave you my number And answered when you called