Memory: Mari.
The entryway is green, as is the room she sits in. It is on a street with many homes, all crowded together and leading to a sky that is, on this day, overcast and bloated with expectation.
Music plays. It plays on an old radio, one which sounds tinny and scratchy as the music filters down the stairs from a bedroom above.
The windows are open; there is no glass here, not in the windows. There are no screens here. The scents from outside filter in, carrying citrus and onions and garlic on the hot and humid breeze, the coming storm making the air damp and heavy.
She sits in the chair.
She is young, no more than a child. Her feet do not reach the floor, and her skirt, visible when she looks down, is pleated and grey, rough, standard Catholic school issue.
Her hair is long and dark, and her skin is a deep tan from warm days and running wild in el monte behind the house.
The girl, one leg crossed beneath her, sits and listens to her papi. He is speaking in her language, and he is happy. He works at the drafting table which sits in the corner, and his wrist makes a reassuring sound as it passes over the onion-skin paper. The scrape of the mechanical pencil he uses is lulling. Upstairs, there are repeating thuds which echo as her twin sister practices dancing to the song that plays in the distance. Sometimes, the childish voice raises loud enough to be heard downstairs.
She stands, and she walks over to the man at the drafting table.
She is small, but she places her hand on his shoulder, fingertips brushing the fabric of the guayabera he wears. "Vas a tener que ser fuerte." You are going to need to be strong, the not-child's voice says, and her dark eyes settle on his. She nods, and the man looks afraid. There is no doubt in his chest, and he stands and edges past the little girl.
There is no phone in this house. There is only one phone on this street, and it is owned by the doctor who lives at the corner. But the man reaches for the little girl's hand, and they walk out the door and into the humid heat. It is going to rain, and stormclouds collect angrily in the sky. The man calls out to the singing girl upstairs that they will return, and dark hair is visible in the upstairs window for a moment; this is the only acknowledgement, and the singing continues as they walk away.
They walk down the street. The ground is warm through the thin soles of her shoes, but when she squints up to look at Papi, she is young again. There is fear in her face, but no comprehension. Her grip in her father's hand is tight and sweaty, and as they reach the cream colored building on the corner and enter the unlocked door, the phone is already ringing.
Here doors are never locked.
She tugs on her papi's hand, feet planted; she does not want to go.
Papi turns, and he crouches in front of her. His hands are on her upper arms, and he looks at her. "Todo va a estar bien, mi amorcito." Everything is going to be fine, he tells her.
The phone stops ringing, answered by the doctor's voice.
"No," she says, the little girl. Nothing will ever be fine after this day, and she knows this.