When Your Soul Speaks
Marissa Quintero
1. The Violin
Grandpa would be so proud, she used to tell me, and I wanted to carry his legacy with me. I'd be dropped off and try to place my fingers properly. I'd make sure my nails were trimmed; I didn't like to be scolded by him.
He slowly found his way to me. He started by slowly moving the violin off my face, looking at me gently. It suddenly turned into kisses, kisses that I couldn't explain, kisses that I couldn't return, kisses that'd freeze me up.
The disgusting smell of cigarettes, the nausea it made me feel, he was dirty, he wasn't pure and pure was all I knew. But I was weak, and he made me bleed. I can still taste the blood on the side of my lips, on the side they never noticed.
And I went into survival mode. I was so scared nobody would believe me, and I kept quiet for the longest time. My silence turned into a memory that disappeared—that's how I coped.
Until you sent me a violin. It all came back in a rush, unannounced and so disrespectfully. I could barely handle it. But you knew exactly what to do. You knew how to calm me, how to reassure me. You helped me believe that it was never my fault. And I'm slowly getting there. I'll get there.
Violins can play magical music, and I won't let that change because of the blood that stained my tongue. It's over and must be left behind. The violin will play joyfully for me again.
2. I'm Nobody and I'm also Somebody
Here comes another Friday, the beginning of another dreadful weekend. The most sickening and dark days of my weeks, and my belly is getting bigger.
I still try to prove myself, I try to believe that I am worth it, I try to show you that I need you, that I want you. But you had her, another nobody, damn she was nobody, but for you, she was somebody. Somebody you preferred to spend your nights with. Somebody you let steal you away from us. Somebody who would fill your most basic and grotesque needs. Somebody who was consuming my soul to the point that I almost extinguished.
I used to cry myself to sleep because you wouldn't answer my calls. And the guilt I'd feel because I knew I was harming our little one, my little one.
Until that day, that damn day that my call got answered. And I heard it all. Forty-five minutes of the worst I'd ever witnessed. Forty-five minutes of how you both owned each other. Forty-five minutes of my heart and soul shattering into a million pieces.
But you finished with her, and you had to get gas. I knew where you'd be, and I ran out barely dressed, scarcely breathing, because I had to "catch" you.
You were out of luck, or at least that's what I thought. I stomped up to you and began to yell at you and punch you. I wasn't thinking that I was hurting my little one. You couldn't believe that I, the stupid, naive Indian-Colombian girl, had left her house at 3 am to find you.
My rage began to evaporate, and you forced me to calm down. You took me home and fell asleep on the couch because your drunkenness didn't let you make it to our bed—our bed, which was mostly my bed.
At 5 am, my little one couldn't take it anymore, and he begged me for my attention. I was rushed to get his lungs prepared, prepared for the "just in case" he had to come earlier. After a week in bed protecting my little one, I didn't have time to think or process my feelings. I had to be in "mother" mode. My guilt was drowning me, so I surrendered. I once again forgot to make myself a priority. It was all about saving my little one. And I did. I think I did. I should have left, but I was weak. Yet, I saved him.
If my little one only knew what I did, he'd know what it is to love, even when all you feel is dead while still being alive. He'd know that I'm nobody, and I'm also somebody.
3. Tender
What can feel more tender than watching your baby sleep on your chest after you've breastfed them?
What can feel more tender than the touch of your loved one as they try to wipe the tears that roll down your cheeks?
What can feel more tender than a kiss on your forehead amidst a panic attack?
What can feel more tender than biting on a ripe mango as its juices explode on your tongue?
What can feel more tender than touching the petals of the most poignant scented roses?
What can feel more tender than the water that hugs your feet as you step into a stream?
What can feel more tender than the view of snowflakes falling while you sip from a cup of passion fruit tea?
What can feel more tender than a hug from your Mama when you come home?
What can feel more tender than your Papa's fingers stroking your hair as he wakes you up with a bowl of fresh fruit?
What can feel more tender than coming home after surgery and seeing your kids smiling and welcoming you back?
What can feel more tender than that first kiss you longed for, and it's finally being felt?
Soft, sweet, gentle, and tender—what I want to feel for as long as I live.
4. Bola e gancho
I dressed him in all yellow, a cute light yellow outfit, as it was his first New Year with us. I tucked my tummy in a tight spandex because I had to look good for him, I had to rise to the occasion, New Year’s Eve with his family. She was happy to have us but wasn't thrilled when she saw the bottle—that bottle.
I wasn't strong enough, and I just went with the flow. She made a mistake, or at least I thought it was a mistake: she emptied the bottle into the kitchen sink. He was already a few drinks in, and when he came for his bottle, his rage could burn down a castle. He made me grab him, my little bundle of joy, and he took us back to our apartment. He then left, stating he was going to get another bottle, and he'd be right back. This was the beginning of a heartbreak I haven't recovered from. It was my firstborn’s first New Year, and he left us alone.
It was either 5 am or 7 am, and they knocked on my door. They rushed me to get dressed, pack the diaper bag, and leave my baby with them. He had crashed into a pole and was in the hospital.
Everything happened so quickly. I remember my shock when I saw his wounds. I remember being afraid. I remember being relieved because he didn't die. I remember being upset because he left us alone. And I'll always remember that even when I told him how much I loved him and I asked him to promise me he'd never do this again, his pride was too high to accept my love.
My milk got stuck. My baby couldn't suck. And this was a pain I could barely endure. I wasn't able to be more of a mother because I was busy being a fucking wife.
The years went by, and while I thought I had forgotten all this pain, five days ago, it all came back.
Someday, I'll be able to remember this with a slight smile. Today, I'm not ready. But I'm deeply grateful. Thanks to Bola E Gancho, I no longer need to live sleepless nights wondering if he'll make it back home.
It Is Over!
5. My Worth
Have I ever been enough? Have I always been too much? This is my worth.
The 11-year-old girl who would wake up to change her sister's diaper and get her gases out before putting her back to sleep.
The 14-year-old girl who began to beg for blood that her mom needed for transfusions.
The 15-year-old girl who danced the waltz with her dad while wearing the most beautiful dress she’d ever worn.
The 16-year-old girl who buried her mother and stayed strong for her father and siblings while she was completely destroyed inside.
The 17-year-old girl who caught her boyfriend cheating with another girl on her way home from work.
The 18-year-old girl who drank and got wasted just to be enough for her boyfriend.
The young adult who traveled overseas to connect with her maternal family in hopes of building a relationship that just never happened.
The 22-year-old woman who almost lost her child while begging to be loved by her husband.
The 28-year-old woman who was knocked to the ground while her back broke the glass of her nightstand, but quickly stood up to protect her child.
The 31-year-old woman who didn't know if she'd love her second child until the minute he was born.
The woman who prayed for love, calmness, and happiness, and couldn’t care less about money or handsome looks.
The 33-year-old woman who took a leap of faith and moved across the sea for the sake of a better life for her children.
The 34-year-old woman who learned how to drive through yelling and kindness, snow and black ice.
The 35-year-old woman who said enough was fucking enough and began her journey of being a single parent.
The woman who almost lost herself to a damn crackhead and a damn controlling narcissist.
The 40-year-old woman who fell deep and picked herself up from the ground with the self-promise to never look back.
The 41-year-old woman who ran her first marathon to raise domestic violence awareness and danced when she finished.
The woman who got her son to sophomore year of college and her other son to a soccer tournament in Florida.
The 44-year-old woman who made it to her 19th half marathon, two marathons, countless 5Ks and 10Ks.
The woman who will cry with the pain of a dagger in her heart and a newborn crying for some breastmilk.
The woman who will love deeply and unconditionally while also learning to love herself.
This is my worth, and I'll be damned if I ever forget what I’m made of.
This is me!
Copyright Credit: Marissa Quintero, “When Your Soul Speaks” from Survival & Beyond, Issue 3 / Summer 2025 (Safe Passage, 2025). Copyright © 2025 by Safe Passage. Reprinted with the permission of the author.