A New York Scene

A pretty lady with a scarf covering her head sat on a wheelchair, a tall nurse by her side.  The pretty lady looked vaguely familiar.  I squinted and her face came into focus.  “Mami!”  My little sister and I ran up the stairs as swiftly as our little legs could carry us.  She had been gone a few days, but in child speak it was an eternity.  Her outstretched arms swallowed us whole into her embrace.  Then I remembered why she had been gone.  “Where’s the baby?”  Her thick eyebrows arched.  Tears fell.  Dad winced and looked at his feet.

 

Advertisements

Afterthought

My childhood bedroom fit separated twin beds, a couple of chest of drawers and a nightstand, leaving plenty of room to attempt somersaults and play jacks.  Then, my sister and I moved to my grandparents.  We shared a full-sized bed and chest of drawers, with some room to play jacks and walk Duncan yo-yos.  Meanwhile, my parents bought a house, and we returned.  They stacked twin beds and squeezed in a nightstand to a room with no closet, barely leaving room for us to hop off bed.  The older I got, the smaller my bedroom.  I felt like an afterthought.