have explained it to Violeta. She asked me, “What is that woman carrying on that plate?” And I told her the truth when I could have lied, I could have told her, It’s a pair of coconut pudding cakes. Of course, she’d have started to ask, Who are the pudding cakes for, why is she carrying them in that platter, why doesn’t she eat them? It’s always some story with no end with her: when something bothers her, she doesn’t stop asking questions. Sometimes it seems that she has finally forgotten a matter, and a month passes, two months, without her mentioning it, but not a chance. At some point out of nowhere she’d start again, And why was she carrying those pudding cakes? You don’t even remember what you had been talking about, but for her it’s as if the old conversation had never been interrupted: And why are they coconut, why doesn’t she eat them, and why two and not one? That’s how she is, Violeta. She’s either quiet for weeks on end, or she’s such a chatterbox asking endless questions that she drives even the sanest person mad. But now that I think about it, she who always asks so many questions never asked why they had cut St. Agatha’s breasts off. She just started to scream.
Bolivia said that America smelled clean but what really smelled clean was her, my mother. She was always pretty and fresh, as if she had just stepped out of the shower. Even during the dog days of summer, Bolivia smelled clean and young. She smelled like breakfast on a checkered tablecloth in the courtyard, although we never had a courtyard, or come to think of it a checkered tablecloth, and as I’ve said before my mother’s own body was foreign to us; there was something about it that wasn’t domestic, that opened outward, like a window that remains open at night and leaves the house exposed. That was Bolivia, she killed herself to provide four walls and a roof to shelter us, and at the same time made the space vulnerable by leaving the door open. This seems like a mess, all this I’m writing you; but deep down I just want to say something simple, let’s say it was on a weekday, on a Wednesday morning, already in America, the three of us finally together, my mother, my sister, and I, pretending we knew each other well, that in spite of everything we were a family, let’s say that seated at the breakfast table, our dream had been fulfilled, because although we didn’t have a checkered tablecloth, we did have orange juice and cornflakes and chocolate milk, those things that make up the well-being of a mother and two daughters, hurrying to get to school. Then suddenly, from Bolivia’s darkened room some guy emerges, his hair all on end, half-naked, after just waking up, his eyes still heavy with sleep. And at that moment in a festive voice, Bolivia would say something like, Girls, this is Andres, or This is Nate, or This is Jonathan, come here, please, splash some water on your face, I’m going to introduce you to my daughters, this is María Paz and Violeta, a pair of adorable girls, now that we’re finally all together, I want to assure you that from now on things are going to be fine for the four us, a real close family. Come, sit with us, Andres, or Nate, or Jonathan, let’s have breakfast together, you’ll see how dandy it will be for us as a family. A week later, Bolivia would be already married, or living together, but in six or seven months, Nate’s or Jonathan’s shirts and underwear would not be on the shelves, instead those of Andres or Mike would be there, which in turn would also disappear, and the shelves would remain empty so some other man could put his clothes there. And so on, successively. Do you know what I’m talking about now?
She liked to dress in white, Bolivia did, when we were poverty-stricken and later, when that wasn’t so much the case. If she wasn’t in white, she wore light colors: lilac, sky blue, pink. In America, she worked fourteen-hour days every day until the day she died,
Bolivia said that America smelled clean but what really smelled clean was her, my mother. She was always pretty and fresh, as if she had just stepped out of the shower. Even during the dog days of summer, Bolivia smelled clean and young. She smelled like breakfast on a checkered tablecloth in the courtyard, although we never had a courtyard, or come to think of it a checkered tablecloth, and as I’ve said before my mother’s own body was foreign to us; there was something about it that wasn’t domestic, that opened outward, like a window that remains open at night and leaves the house exposed. That was Bolivia, she killed herself to provide four walls and a roof to shelter us, and at the same time made the space vulnerable by leaving the door open. This seems like a mess, all this I’m writing you; but deep down I just want to say something simple, let’s say it was on a weekday, on a Wednesday morning, already in America, the three of us finally together, my mother, my sister, and I, pretending we knew each other well, that in spite of everything we were a family, let’s say that seated at the breakfast table, our dream had been fulfilled, because although we didn’t have a checkered tablecloth, we did have orange juice and cornflakes and chocolate milk, those things that make up the well-being of a mother and two daughters, hurrying to get to school. Then suddenly, from Bolivia’s darkened room some guy emerges, his hair all on end, half-naked, after just waking up, his eyes still heavy with sleep. And at that moment in a festive voice, Bolivia would say something like, Girls, this is Andres, or This is Nate, or This is Jonathan, come here, please, splash some water on your face, I’m going to introduce you to my daughters, this is María Paz and Violeta, a pair of adorable girls, now that we’re finally all together, I want to assure you that from now on things are going to be fine for the four us, a real close family. Come, sit with us, Andres, or Nate, or Jonathan, let’s have breakfast together, you’ll see how dandy it will be for us as a family. A week later, Bolivia would be already married, or living together, but in six or seven months, Nate’s or Jonathan’s shirts and underwear would not be on the shelves, instead those of Andres or Mike would be there, which in turn would also disappear, and the shelves would remain empty so some other man could put his clothes there. And so on, successively. Do you know what I’m talking about now?
She liked to dress in white, Bolivia did, when we were poverty-stricken and later, when that wasn’t so much the case. If she wasn’t in white, she wore light colors: lilac, sky blue, pink. In America, she worked fourteen-hour days every day until the day she died,
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