The TV hums, a vigil of static.
Its blue glow licks the sheets of my bed.
She is already here, and she says siéntate.
The room thickens, swallowing silence.
I close my eyes, recite my prayer,
but God does not come to take me away.
At seven, I thought He could take me away.
But He never saw past the static.
Never answered, no matter the prayer.
No angels gathered around the bed.
Only her voice, gentle, precise—
as if it was mine to refuse. Silence.
Somewhere, my mother believes in silence,
believes I am safe while she is away.
The house echoes—siéntate,
and I obey. The TV crackles, static
spitting nonsense, flickering across the bed.
The remote is in reach, but not my prayer.
I hold the words in my teeth—a prayer,
a plea I never speak into silence.
She smooths my hair, straightens the bed,
but the folds still hold what she took away.
The air stays dense with the static.
Her hands do not hesitate—no te muevas.
I do not move when she says siéntate.
Seven years old, I am not a prayer,
only a body sinking into static.
I have learned there is mercy in silence.
I have learned to go far, far away.
But I always wake up in the bed.
And the bed is always the bed.
The sheets whisper what she said—siéntate.
She is gone, but she is never away.
God never came; maybe I was the prayer.
Maybe the only answer is silence,
the weight of it, heavier than static.
The static stays. The bed does not forget.
No prayer unmakes what was done—siéntate.
Even in silence, I cannot get away.
7
