1962

Twenty. An age Mama had promised me would be a time of adult transitions.

Yet, I feel stuck and unhinged, all at once.

STUCK

My day consists of dusting shelves, washing dishes, and folding clothes. Every other day, I scrub the toilet, or visit the market to pick up groceries. This must've been what Titi Genea's life was like at first in Puerto Rico. Repetition, with zero promise of change. Things did get better for her, but I don't think they'll get better for me.

When Alondra has extra money, which isn't often, she buys me canvas and paint. She's the only one who surveys my paintings with a smile. Natalia encourages me with noncommittal phrases in between her shifts at the cinema. Luto throws derisive glances at the canvases, grunting about how there's no room in the apartment for my junk. However, his face pales when Pedro stands behind him to squeeze his shoulder. He likes to remind Luto that he's there, even if no one can see him but me.

UNHINGED

Living on the Island, I never knew my place. Now that I'm back in New York, I understand that I was lost because Mama is gone, Genea is gone. When Mama died, I thought I had no one. Now, I know I was wrong, because these last few years without Genea, I've truly been alone.

A barrage of vehicles passes by on my walk to the market. Too fast. Too shiny. Too many colors. The first day out navigating streets I thought I knew, I was scared.

In the market, the shelves are teeming with food. Signs scream at me to buy 1, and get another free. The ridiculousness even has Pedro scoffing. Like me, he's mesmerized by the clear, running water flowing from the tap. At night, the lights no longer flicker, or go out for weeks on end.

So. Much. Excess.

I don't understand the purpose of being offered so much, but in reality, scraping by with so little.

The upside to being back in the States is that Luto is happier. Now, he's leaving me alone. Sure, it took Pedro's help to literally get my cousin off my back, but it's done. It feels like a weight has been lifted from me, and I can breathe easier. All the same, I've traded in some of my comforts in exchange for such relief.

Things were simpler in Puerto Rico. For five years, I knew my place. I had friends. I didn't have a lot of chores, because Titi made Alondra, the eldest daughter, take on the daily tasks of the household. And there, no one treated me like I'm stupid. Here, everything is an illusion: it seems like there is so much to go around, but it's only available if you have money.

Now, I only have one real friend: Pedro. Alondra tries to be there for me. She's even mastered a few phrases of sign language, and sometimes we talk, halting and awkward as it is. Pedro sits by, a sardonic grin wracking his dark face as my sister struggles to sign sentences I mastered as a child.

Every time I go past a plate glass window, I see my reflection. Arms and legs swinging, but I can't see the ground in the reflection. Like I'm floating, or walking to nowhere. Nowhere that matters.

I've studied my face at home, in the mirror, asking myself where I should go. Not even Pedro answers me, and my fear grows.

My last trip to the store, I noticed a boy spreading wares on a street corner, small gadgets he'd made from trash. Several people passed without giving him a second glance, but a few stopped to peruse and purchase.

Only fourteen.

Pedro was impressed, and so I was, too.

If that kid could do it, so could I. Finally, a way to get me out of the apartment. I could put my junk to good use.

I took note of the boy's methods: use a blanket as a backdrop. Scatter quickly when approached by angry city-goers or police officers.

My first attempt was discouraging. No one stopped. A child stepped on my painting of mama. Then it rained, and I was forced to wrap my wares in a blanket and huddle in a concrete alcove between two buildings.

Try again.

Pedro always knew the right move.

Two days later, I made sure the apartment was immaculate. Then, I set out to find a suitable space on the sidewalk outside to display my paintings on a blanket of Genea's, featuring elaborate stitching. I had painted a sign with prices, and a shop name: Strokes of Art.

In my best dress, I pasted on a smile. Two people stopped, and one person bought my painting, la familia.

It was one of my least favorite. I had drafted the colors in a frenzy, after Luto had stood in my doorway the night before, breathing heavily before moving on. The canvas featured bright reds, yellows, and hints of black. I wasn't sure what I meant in creating it, but after finishing, a numbness had settled over me. Maybe it was relief.

It was a greater relief to part with it. To know that someone would share a piece of my life, however sullied, on display in their home.

~*~