I remember a bride and a groom, not distinctly clear figures but rather silhouettes. That day I was in Manhattan, near Central Park with my family. The day was that of a breezy, summer afternoon and a bride and groom were being photographed by a birch tree. She was of Asian descent, standing against the tree, her veil covering her vulnerable eyes, like a shield that protects the innocent.
Even then at 16, I knew that I preferred the comfort of my t-shirt and jeans over that long, torturous, puffy gown. A gown that mopped the ground and with it, picked up tiny pieces of grass and dirt particles along the way. A gown that fit her small body so perfectly that no one, not even the skilled photographer could re-define, re-invent, reshape. A gown that was too pure, too refined in elegance to surmount.
I watched that angelic figure from a far and focused my own lens on her as the photographer did with his. Her mystery and obscurity was captivating, but only for the moment in which I shot the picture. Beyond that lens, she meant nothing to me; she was just a figure, a silhouette in a white gown. And I…
I would never be a bride.

I was seven and Daddy woke me up for school. He made my lunch with butter and mom’s homemade jams, then he ironed my white scarf. Once, he left the hot iron on one of my doll blankets; the iron’s stain never came off. Daddy and I crossed the street and he never let go of my hand. But he knew I would grow up one day. He knew that one day, I wouldn’t need to hold on to his hand.
I want to thank all the Dads who hold their children’s hands, who take them to soccer practice and cheer from the benches. I want to thank the fathers who kiss their children every night before they go to bed and sit on the edge of their beds before they fall asleep. I want to thank the Dads who buy ice-cream on their way home from work and play catch with their kids at dusk.
Thank you Daddy for cheering me, for never ceasing to smile, for being my rock. Thank you for being my father, my guardian angel.
Love,
Your little girl

The night is hot and my blouse is unbuttoned half way.
I’m thinking of sleeping in a hotel room, under fresh, clean, new covers, under a foreign roof. I miss the aura of unknown territories, the smell of unfamiliar beds and bleached sheets.
The night is hot, stale, decayed, hackneyed…I feel out of place, like a puzzle that doesn’t quite fit, like a misplaced card.
I’m thinking of that untouched room, the one that the maid has just finished cleaning, the one with windows that open to a dark, black midnight sky.
The night is hot. I take off the stale blouse and slip under the covers; I’m tainted by every inch of my old, damaged bed.

I head out the door and this time I decide to leave my watch on the dining room table. Time will elapse on its self; I don’t need to keep track.
The small shops on Wisconsin Avenue in D.C. tempt me again. It’s always the same temptation. The temptation of life in the city that never sleeps, that never shuts off its lights…New York. I look inside an empty Laundromat and I like the idea of going inside, inserting a coin and doing the laundry, the thing I do best. But I’ve already done today’s laundry.
I walk ahead of them and I know that time is elapsing on its own. I feel its power and I’m not going to stop it. I take pleasure in my fast, yet cautious walk under this dark, starless night. The sidewalk, the road, the night, and a moment of pure contentment all belong to me, or so it seems.
And that moment is when I know that I can and will have the life I want, the life in a sleepless city, the life of dirty Laundromats, dark allies, dismal apartments and loud motorbikes.
Time means nothing…

We walk by private boats and the happy couples who drink wine in them. These beautifully constructed boats belong to the rich and have become showcases for those who walk by. We watch them as they laugh candidly, their legs crossed, holding their expensive champagnes. And we wonder. We wonder how the rich became rich. We wonder how these boats became private, almost untouchable by those who could simply watch from a side.
We’ve learned to be the watchers. We’ve learned to enjoy picture-perfect sceneries like sunsets, sunrises, dawns, blue skies, boats, elegant bistros and diners in limousines. We’ve learned to live by the pleasure of others.
I watch this beautiful picture, this beautiful scene and I feel nothing. I’m tired of pretending, pretending that I’m pleased by what I can only see.

“Donde está mi amor?”
“Where are you my love?”
Inside the elevator, she is talking on her cell phone to a lover or a boyfriend or an ex she is still in love with. Her stop is the 24th floor so I have plenty of time to find out her story. She tells him that she can only spend a few minutes because her husband is coming back from town. So she is having an affair. I try to hide my smile; I can’t let her know that I know her secret.
Her short, black hair allows me to see her freckles, the few lines above her forehead and the tiny mole above her left brow. She fidgets and plays with the gold wedding band on her finger. How many times does she see him? How many lies does she tell?
She quickly grabs her navy brief case and steps out to see Enrique, the forbidden lover, the secret lover, her amor.
I smile and wait for the elevator to close.

Carelessly, she strides down the escalator in her ballerina dress. She dances around and chases her little brother while people walk pass them with their big shopping bags. Her little body sways as if she is a weightless feather.
I sit, watching her in envy. I envy her freedom, her swift moves, her charisma, her free spirit, her ignorance. I envy her ignorance because her world is much more beautiful and pure than mine is, because she doesn’t live by rules or definitions. She is a small child who is unaware of the loneliness of my world. She doesn’t know how ugly everything can seem, how erroneous and scary it can be.
I uncross my legs as her little brother tries to pass by. I sit back and watch them scream out of excitement and I envy them.
The little ballerina and her brother continue their enjoyment while their grandmother tries to hold on to them. They leave and I picture my sister as a little girl, a little girl whose mommy temporarily left when she was eight. A little girl who was never a ballerina.

Sitting alone with my cup of vanilla latte, I wonder if the man sitting in front of me sees the bubble I’m in. I wonder if I appear to him as a snobbish, spoiled young adult who will let no one break her bubble. I wonder if I appear as one who thinks highly of herself, who is arrogant and will let no man get close, close enough to break her boundaries.
Nura says men are afraid that I will reject them and break their hearts. She says that I’m intimidating because I reserve myself from engaging in ludicrous conversations and activities when I’m away from my circle of close friends. She says I’m not the type of girl that flirts with every male in the room and makes herself seem easy.
Maybe it’s time to let loose. Maybe it’s time to be the chooser instead of the chosen. I have to break this damn bubble and at least feign a smile, a smile that says ‘look, I’m really not a snob and I don’t think I’m better than everyone in this room’.
By the time I’m finished with my latte, the man has already left. I didn’t get to ask him if he read my fears or if he saw that beneath my stuck-up image, I was just a naive, simple girl who was tired of drinking alone.

The water boils and I stir the pot. I put the macaronis in and close the top. The kitchen smells of burned onions and garlic; my clothes have a combination of both smells. Unlike my mother, I don’t know my ways around the kitchen. I don’t know where all the peppers and other additives are. I don’t know where she stores her best knives, her best plate ware.
I’m not a cook. I’m not a housekeeper, nor am I a maid. I despise frozen meat and the smell of fish. I’m scared of knives, scissors and other sharp objects. I have no predilection for pots and pans and silverware. I despise chores.
Inside this house, I eat, sleep, visit the laundry room every Sunday afternoon and occasionally do the dishes. I am every roommate’s worst nightmare because I don’t clean and I don’t obsess with neatness or organization.
Mother thought she raised a proper lady. She thought she raised a model of herself. Mother thought her daughter would grow up to be an independent, proper, responsible woman.
The macaronis are ready. The pot of beef is ready. I make the table and we eat. I stare at the bright walls of the kitchen and suddenly I miss mother.

Whenever daddy fell asleep on the couch, I brought him a blanket or a pillow. I used to think I was being helpful. I used to think I was doing something big for him. I used to think a blanket and a pillow would be his only needs.
She takes off his socks and helps him put on his pyjamas. I can’t watch him weaken. I can’t stand by the door and watch him fall, right before my eyes. I can’t look at him when he is in pain, when he is too tired to eat, when he is holding on to the wall.
When I was little, daddy had a hard time walking up the stairs and whenever we took walks, he was always behind, taking slow steps. The doctors couldn’t help daddy and I didn’t understand how much he was hurting inside. He was good at hiding his pain. Behind his sincere smile, behind his hopeful eyes, there was a deeper wound that no doctor could heal.
I stand by the door and watch my father as he struggles to bend. I stand by the door and I want to reach over, give him my hand, and tell him that I will always be by his side. I want to tell him that I love him, that he has always been my tree, my guard, my protector. I want to reach out to him and ask him not to fall.
Daddy please don’t fall…
My father goes to bed and we close his door. He will get up in the morning and he will smile again, as if nothing is wrong. He is going to be the father he has always been, and in his eyes, I will always be his little girl.