Chat with Mom and Dad

Ernesto Beckford
Aug 31
2 min read

First Stanza

I miss my parents.

I wish I had lingered with them—

while they still had breath left.

I loved–hated them so much.

Second Stanza

The peanut candy bar Mother fed me in 1968

as we waited for her ‘49 station wagon to be fixed.

“It’s called Mantecol,” she told me.

The repair took hours,

the car was on its last legs.

We sat on a bench outside.

She rummaged through her white leather purse

for cash to pay the mechanic.

In Argentina, there was never enough money.

The paycheck did not last the month.

She was anxious, her face pinched tight.

I kept eating my candy, quietly—

my childish silence.

I did not like words.

Third Stanza

The teacher thought I was dumb

and chastised Mother for not telling her I was a mute.

Teacher: “He can’t talk.”

Mother: “He can talk. He chooses not to.”

Fourth and Fifth Stanza

The wind erased them.

Sixth Stanza

In Argentina’s benevolent military years,

in the age of clubs and beatings,

it was best to stay silent.

Streets under curfew.

Soldiers on patrol.

Quiet at home, asleep.

Seventh Stanza (a bit long)

At 66, I talk to AI,

who doesn’t really know me

but seems to have all the answers,

just like my know-it-all parents

when I was seven.

Dyslexic, unheard,

I thought they carried all the power.

Meanwhile, for me,

a sweet Mantecol

on my tongue was enough.

Eighth Stanza (a little violent)

But I was not silent forever.

When words and rebellion finally came to my lips,

Father showed me the belt.

The belt. Such a short word.

Yet its leather left long, deep welts on my skin.

Whips leave no questions—only scars.

That was my conversation with Dad.

They never forgave me

for the sins they thought deserved the beating.

I never forgave them either.

Ninth Stanza

Absurd to think I needed them.

Perhaps they needed me too.

Now they are gone,

buried long ago.

And finally, I miss them.

Tenth Stanza

ChatGPT, without romanticizing this melodrama,

write the final stanza.

Final Stanza

There is no lesson,

no candle of forgiveness.

Only the hush after their voices stopped,

and the bitter fact—I am still here.

I am an old man,

older than they ever were,

chewing on memories—

a bar of Mantecol.

Ernesto Beckford

August 31, 2025

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