Big Chicas Don't Cry

by Annette Chavez Macias

The chatter continued as everyone took their seats along the tamale assembly line. We’d had the same places for as long as I could remember. As the family grew, more tables and fold-up chairs were added. But the process remained the same.

And so he’d gathered his things, told me to have a good life, and walked out my door, not caring in the slightest that he’d just stolen my trust and heart.

Then, when I couldn’t cry anymore, I called Erica. “911,” I said. “What kind of emergency?” she replied. “Are we putting our hair up and taking off our hoop earrings, or is it something that can be cured with a tub of ice cream and Baileys?”