That one dream

We were living in a simple house. I was nine years old. In that one house my mother did all the cleaning and cooking while my father hanged out in the dark alleys without notifying us of  his whereabouts. My father ran away. He ran of with his new wife, whose nicknames "Grissy." Grissy was a very pretty lady. She had black hair, it reminded me of the sheen of a black stallion, her eyes were the brown of a caramel and the blush of her cheeks was faint but admirable. I had wished that Grissy was me and that I was Grissy, so my father could take me away. I did not want to live in that house where the peach tree sank in sorrow. The peach tree which never bared fruit.

The peach tree is where the story begin and lives end. It was surrounded by white chrysanthemums . They were beautiful, always in bloom and they would always point up straight towards my eyes looking down on them. The peach tree did not nourish much as the chrysanthemums did. The tree did not reflect the life the flowers evicted. It never bloomed its buds which turned into flowers which transformed into peaches that would eventually be picked by us or picked at by the crows. There never was a plop nor splatter of the fruit for the fruit was never there. The tree was dead; if it did not provide fruits for my mother and I to enjoy it was dead and so the tree took the dead with it.

A week later I saw my mom, she was floating off a branch of the tree. I tugged at her foot and she simply spun a little. Her foot was stiff. As a child, I knew she had died. I don't like peaches. They separated me from my mom and sent me off. Months later, after staying in that one house where all the lonely children stayed my aunt came to pick me up. She asked me to live with her and I went. Her house was very big, blue and had no peach trees; I was very happy. But soon my aunt was sent to the hospital and never came back until I saw her in the casket; my uncle angrily tossed me back in the simple house I lived in and I stayed there a few hours until my neighbor came. I was saved.

I eventually grew up in that house. I did not live there though, my life was in m,y neighbor's house, with his child, around my age, who was named Tom. Tom gave me life and while I spent my nights in torture, to try to heal myself from my backyards memento, I focused on the life in the daytime where I loved to hang out with Tom. Eventually, Tom's father told me I should continue my education and so I did. I did not only that but worked so I could eat my own food and pay my own bills. I fell in love with Tom and we got married. We moved to another city and as a memoir of my mother I planted a peach tree and surrounded it with chrysanthemums. I felt like good things had finally begun to happen. I had a child. I lost that child. Tom lost me. We lost each other. All that remained was the peach tree and myself. I then felt my mother's heart ache. I climbed up the tree and positioned the rope my mother had done so years ago. I then slid down and let myself drop. It was the end of my attempt on life. The peach tree stayed there. It eventually withered and the chrysanthemums died as well.  I suppose the peach tree was my companion from the beginning.

Celebrating December

As my brother opens the gates, Mocoñoño walks up and greets my brother while panting happily. My brother tauntingly shakes the black plastic bag filled with secrets only the children,including myself, could identify: fireworks. These are not the fireworks one who lives in the United States sees, they are not super flashy and don't fly so high up  they can be seen across your city, they are small and feisty. I even remember one time my cousin, at the time my best friend, burned her finger as one, we call "cebollitas"  exploded on her as she stubbornly held it to see the sparks fly in front of her. Since then , I've been scared of those little bombs.

Typically, every year, the Sotos convince whoever they can to go back to their homeland down to a small town called Zinapecuaro. For the Soto family, an activity  and is infamous for its fire, sparks, burns, smiles and laughter is when the older, but adventure-filled relatives, such as my brother, go down to "el mercado" to buy a bagful or two of fireworks and the magic that results of that purchase happen in the night. The smaller of the children carelessly handle the cebollitas while the big kids ruthlessly scare the smaller children, and sometimes the adults, with the louder, smokier, and more colorful of the fireworks. I have often been scared for one time the abejita flew right in between my clumsy feet and seemed like it would cause a fire, on my shoelace. Then again, I was always the scaredy-cat of the group the one who let her imagination run wild on ideas of getting hurt, considering every single possibility. Yet, I always was deeply entertained while watching others, eventually joining in myself. I remember thinking, as we would drive into the gate of my grandmother's home how excited I was for Christmas in order to light up the fireworks. It was a time of festivity, the only time I felt I was surrounded with magic.

Even now, I love joining on the fun that I felt ten years ago. Flashing fireworks, will always flood down memories of my family coming together, without religious differences, family grudges, skin color differences tagged along with accents and cultural barriers ; the flick of the match and the roll of the lighter to set the wick on fire have always been a sign of unity.