Querida Daisy,
My ceiling is made up of twenty-one planks of wood. I started counting them. Sometimes I count them in English, and sometimes en español. It's good to mix things up when you're alone in your room looking up.
I hate the color though: too bright, too churpy. Maybe a deep purple, or a cold black. A dark color would better hide the knots as well. It's important to hide the inner workings of wood.
I had a fight with Mels and I asked her to leave mi casa. Mi casa es la casa de ella -- for real – it’s not some plaque hanging by the front door. My Mels, mi amiga, mi hermana – I kicked out because she told me the only photo of my dad was taken in the 1940s.
1940s? That’s like World War II time. No, I do not want the only photo I have of my father (minus the face) associated with such a dark, tragic period in human history. It would also mean he's now ninety-plus years old. And let's face it, most people never reach that age.
Silly, huh.
No, it's more than silly, it's wrong to lie about such things, especially when so much is at stake. I mean deep down I know my father isn't dead, as my mom states, and that one day I'll get to meet him.
Oh, Mels, liar, liar, pants on fire. I'm going to borrow your expression. I would say it to your face if you were here...but you're not.
Mi mamá is taking me to the mall this afternoon. She says I need to get out of my room and get some new clothes. I'm down with that; it's time to accessorize my feelings.
Counting down the planks until we leave: uno, dos, tres, cuatro...
:'(
Yvette
