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.

My friend sent me a text message this morning: At home crying because end of school finally hit me.
Last night we walked on stage as they called our names. We walked on stage and received our diplomas. Diplomas that represented four years of tears, laughs, tests, sleepless nights, overdue labs, and afters school meetings. Diplomas that stored the bitter, sweet memories of four years that flew by, like the balloons that flew off during the ceremony.
I watched their faces, faces that screamed happiness, relief, freedom. I replayed memories of my freshman year and thought of the little girl who never spoke, never raised her hand, never broke her shell.
We screamed, we jumped up and we hugged each other tightly, as if to secure our friendship bond. We made it. We did it.
I watched the tearful eyes of my teachers and knew it was over.
It finally hit me.

I asked him if he was going to miss us.
I looked at the clean, white board, the walls that were empty of posters, the empty chairs, the untouched desks. I looked at his almost bare room and thought back to the first day of school when I sat, uncertain of what the year would be like. I was overwhelmed with frustration and I could not bare it.
Now, all the seats were empty while I stood there, saying good-bye. I knew I was going to miss that class, those immature, yet creative boys who took every chance at sexual innuendos. I was going to miss Chester’s imitation of D.H.T.’s “Listen to your heart”. I was going to miss Julia’s speeches as she half sat on her chair, perfectly tanned. I was going to miss John’s witty, smart aleck responses.
Many stories were told in that class. Stories of young lives in two generations. Stories that one teacher decided to tell. Stories that one teacher decided to hear. Stories that were shared, whether wanted or unwanted. Stories that weren’t written in text, but were told by kids who lived them everyday. Stories that were real in all their simplicity and honesty.
We made realities out of everyday happenings. We interpreted literature in the best way that it could be done by a class of teenagers. We wrote, and were asked to share. And he was right; we all did have something to share.
We discovered the very lives of those sitting next to us, how their parents treated them, how they got away with trouble, how they played tricks on their teachers.
I knew I was going to miss him.

My father knows which lettuce to pick out. He knows which apples are good, which ones still need time to ripen, which tomatoes are juicier. He knows where to park, where to find the best deals, the best sales.
I hold onto my father’s hand as we walk by the Potomac River. I hold on to a hand that is now wrinkled, full of scars of the past and the present. A hand that held on to his children’s hands when their mother wasn’t there to do it. A hand that carried the weight of everyday tasks when mother was gone. A hand that is still scarred by wounds, wounds that will never heal.
My father knows when to let go of my hand. He knows that I count on him for being there for me, for protecting me, for loving me.
He seldom speaks to me about himself, his life or his pains. We seldom speak. But my father and I watch out for each other and our unspoken love for one another is strong enough to keep us together.

The smell and aura of the restaurant have possessed me. The candles are lit, it’s dark and everything is in harmony; there is a balance between the diners and the restaurant. There is a special elegance about this place that I’m madly in love with.
A man smokes and I watch the smoke disappear into the air. He is enjoying his cigarette and wine. I’m enjoying his enjoyment, though I have nothing of my own except a sentence in my head.
The Moroccan waiter passes by a couple of times and we make eye contact. He cajoles with a couple and asks the woman, “you’re not getting drunk tonight?” and the woman laughs and says, “No, not tonight.”
He smokes and I like to sit with him and take a puff. I hate the smell of cigarettes, but I love to watch people hold them in their hands like they’re candy, or a sweet companion. It’s a temporary, evanescent escape, but so is everything else.
Everything, like this restaurant, the feeling I have, the things I see, and the thoughts I have are all momentary…like falling in and out of love, like being kissed, like drinking wine, like every day that passes by.
We live in impermanency, in moments that cease to last, in déjà vu…The pleasure of the wine, the cigarette, the kiss, the hello and good-bye lasts for a second or two, and then it’s gone.
It’s raining outside by the time I leave and I suddenly like it…temporarily…