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If you haven’t read all the previous parts or you don’t remember them well, I urge you to read this short(ish) story from the beginning (link here). The whole thing is supposed to be experienced in one sitting, but I didn’t want to go radio silent for about a month.

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My mind often revisits, perhaps as punishment,
My mother’s face dominated by a scowl
That deepened the creases long etched
Through years of worry and resentment.
Her lips were pursed as if holding herself
From unleashing a hellish rebuke,
And her eyes, intense and narrowed,
Assured that wherever her gaze landed,
She would find some detail to fault.

As damning evidence,
My mother showed a tied-up condom:
A limp and deflated rubbery sheath,
Its head filled with creamy-yellow fluid.

My mother ordered me to explain this gift
I had left for her to find while cleaning my room.
I wanted to shake my head and spit out bitterly,
“Sure, Mother. After my girlfriend and I made love,
I tossed the condom aside and forgot about it
To screw with your persecution complex,
To express contempt for your brand of parenthood,
Your desire to control every facet of my life,
To mold me into the perfect son you wish me to be.”

I apologized, but suggested she could appreciate
That my girlfriend and I use protection.
My mother scrunched up her nose
Like she had stumbled upon a pile of dung.

Her voice rose in pitch and volume as she said
I shouldn’t be having sex with “that girl,”
Whom she had welcomed into our home for years.
“No wonder your grades are slipping
If you focus on pursuing vices instead of studying.
Think of your future, think of your career!”

She had called your mother to inform her
Of the grievous sin we were committing,
But your mother already knew
Because she had heard us going at it.

“How could that girl throw away her potential,
Squander the sacrifices made by her parents?
Her mother gave birth to her, nursed her,
Stood at her crib every morning,
And hoped that she would grow into a good girl,
Only for her child to become a disgrace.”

My mother referred to you as a bad influence,
A rotten soul going nowhere fast,
A walking advertisement of aimlessness
Who would end up pregnant and homeless.
She forbid me from bringing you to the house,
And added that if I were mature enough,
I’d know that I should stay away from you.

Had I foreseen such a confrontation,
I would have imagined myself yelling,
But I saw my mother for the first time:
An aging woman who followed a script,
Who needed to straighten every life’s crooked lines,
Who met my father and shortly after got hitched
Because that’s what people are supposed to do,
And ever since, they argued as often
As loving couples exchange smiles.
My parents, my life’s givers, lived trapped inside
Something too awful and intractable to escape.

Still simmering from the confrontation,
I accompanied you and your mother
To a bike dealership in Astigarraga
That smelled of leather and new rubber.
The polished frames of motocross bikes,
In screaming colors like red, blue, and yellow,
Gleamed in a line-up,
Resembling museum exhibits.
Those knobs in the bikes’ tire treads
Would dig into the dirt for maximum grip.

You fell in love with a Suzuki RM125,
Its bodywork clad in bright yellow,
Its mechanical heart laid bare
And ready to be flecked with dirt,
Its front suspension forks
Like the limbs of a seasoned athlete.
The high-mounted guard would prevent
Mud from splattering your lovely face.

At the counter, when time came to pay
And your mother pulled out her credit card,
You grinned, clasped your hands,
Let out a squeal of delight,
And bounced on your tiptoes.

You had dreaded surrendering your Aprilia
To fill the void in your hard-earned savings,
And found yourself marveling at your luck
When your mother offered to chip in.

Bless that woman, bless her heart
That beat with love for you, her little star.
I will be forever grateful
She kept opening the door of her home
Despite knowing how you and I spent our time
Whenever the adults left us alone.

Her words echo in my mind,
As clear as if spoken yesterday:
“I’ve never seen Izar this serious about anything,
And even if I tried to stop her, I know I can’t,
Because she’d just pack up and leave.
She was always the wild one:
Uncaring for the rules,
Unafraid to do whatever she wanted.
Nobody had to teach her how to be free.”

For encouraging a “ridiculous dream,”
As your father called it,
Your mother’s support opened a rift,
And now they argued more often than not,
As most couples are destined to do.

During my lunch break, you and I met
At the restaurant that faced my high school.
In a dining space that smelled of garlic and olive oil,
Surrounded by the clink of cutlery
And the chatter of youth unfolding,
You were savoring a potato omelette sandwich,
And dropping breadcrumbs on a motocross magazine.

You charted the steps to conquer the racing world:
Seek out the motocross tracks in Gipuzkoa;
Immerse yourself in racing clubs, your gateways
To structured training and expert instruction;
Compete in races and secure victories
So local scribes would ink your triumphs,
Drawing to you sponsors willing to invest.
From there, ascend to regional championships
With prize money and notoriety at stake.

You had brought a bulky backpack
Although you had the day off from work;
You needed to refine your riding technique,
So once I returned to my classroom,
To that monotony of chalk and textbooks,
You would head to the trails at Mount Jaizkibel.

I envisioned you astride your Suzuki RM125,
Navigating those winding, weathered paths
Lined with prickly shrubs,
Skirting cliff edges,
Your bike kicking up clumps of soil,
The distant roar of waves crashing on rocks
As your sole company.

In my mind, your front wheel caught
On a deceptive patch of loose dirt, twisting viciously.
Your world turned into a blur of sky, sea, and earth
As the ground vanished,
And you and your bike hung weightless
Until the rocky outcroppings below
Rushed up to meet you.

I asked you to bring me along;
I could stand around and watch you train.
If you suffered any injury,
I would run to your side and patch you up.
You told me to rest easy: you’d be careful.
Besides, you refused to let me skip class, arguing
That I shouldn’t sacrifice my grades for your sake.

You brought up my mother’s disdain,
Which whispered to me of never again
Holding you tight while lying on the bed
That my parents chose for their son,
Nor smelling your lingering scent on my sheets
As if you were sleeping beside me.

You inquired about my sudden glumness,
And after I confessed, you smirked and assured
That our love wasn’t tethered to any room.

At night, we rode in your Aprilia to Plaiaundi,
And ventured into the deserted ecological park.
In that moonlit, forest-like gloom,
Fireflies meandered like drifting candle flames.
After the rain, the earth exhaled a damp scent.

We ascended the steps of an observation deck
That rose on sturdy wooden stilts
Above the embracing wildness of foliage.
I settled upon the moist boards of the deck.
You nestled into my lap, straddling me,
And draped your arms around my neck.

Leaves whispered, rustling in the breeze,
And crickets chirred in the undergrowth.
My tongue laved over your pebbled areola.
I caressed your nipple with my lips,
Teasing and tugging on the turgid peak,
Gradually drawing it into my wet mouth.
I savored the silky texture of your skin
As it pressed against my taste buds.

Whenever you met me in the evening
Wearing your pleated, knee-length skirt,
You made the wordless promise
That our date would find us heading
To a building with a rustic stone façade,
That back then may have been a minor college.

We wound our way to the building’s rear.
It faced a desolate park and the highway.
In a shadowed colonnade, I claimed a stone bench.
You climbed into my lap, your favorite spot,
Then unzipped me and eased down my boxers.
After your panties joined my keys in my pocket,
You curtained your hips and my legs with the skirt.

I remember what it felt like in the night breeze
When you lowered your hips and slid me inside,
Engulfing me with your slick, velvety depths:
The warmth of a hearth in wintertime.

The same dude used to show up;
He stood in the light cone
Of the sole street lamp,
Drawing puffs from his cigarette
And waiting for his dog to poop.
You and I kept still, embraced,
Your inner walls gripping my length
While our hearts beat as one.

Shoulder-deep in the cool waters of Hendaye Beach,
My bare feet digging into the soaked sand,
I shut my eyes and basked in the warmth
Of the sun’s rays dancing on my face,
And of your tongue, that tasted of salt.
My fingers roamed the skin of your back,
Over the bumps and ridges of your vertebrae.

The sea rolled and receded around us.
The rhythmic lapping of waves against the shore
Blended with the cawing of gulls overhead
And snippets of conversations in French
As if coming from a gramophone in the next room.

Dark strands of your slicked-back hair
Stuck to your cheeks and neck.
Droplets scattered across your smooth skin
Caught the sunlight and glistened.
Your eyelids drooped to a half-lidded stare
As you broke into a mischievous grin.

When you leaned in, I inhaled
The coconut aroma of your sunscreen.
Your thumbs hooked inside my swim shorts.
While your wet lips brushed the shell of my ear,
You asked me to pull down your bikini bottom.

With the spandex garment bunched up mid-calf,
I cupped your firm and fleshy ass cheeks,
And you wrapped your legs around my waist.
As the tip of my member nudged your folds,
I worried about the lack of lubrication.

I wish I could remember how it felt
To make love to you in the sea,
But that memory cuts to a bald old man
Who swam in our orbit
While gawking with a smile spread wide
As if partaking in a private show,
Even though you kept glaring at him.
“What the fuck is that idiot doing?”

Beyond the scrubland at Mount Arburu,
The undulating hills were blanketed in patches
Of dark evergreens and deciduous trees,
Whose trunks had withstood storms
And decades of growth.

Seated at the rear, I clutched at the rider
While your Suzuki shuddered and jolted
Over bumps, rocking us back and forth,
While you wrenched the handlebars
To dodge rocks and bristly bushes
Dotted with yellow flowers.

We lay supine on eroded, sloping bedrock
Beside the feathery fronds of ferns.
Birds chirped in the nearby woods.
My lungs filled with crisp mountain air
That carried the scents of pine and grass,
And the sweet rot of decomposing vegetation.

The sun stretched the shadows of trees
And bathed the scrubland in gold.
Soon enough, our god would hide.
Under that ungraspable, azure dome,
Each succesive hump of the far-off mountains
Became lighter and lighter,
Watercolor washes on a canvas.

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Author’s note: today’s song is “Hey Jane” by Spiritualized.

If you enjoy my free verse poetry, I have three books worth of it yet to be self-published. Check it out.