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.
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.