Category: Creative Nonfiction

We were on the corner of Essex Street and Delancey, across the street from the old Essex Street Retail Market. It was still open for business, though from the outside it looked half derelict and definitely dicey. I could see my aunt staring at the large sign on the side of the building; she was obviously trying to read it, to make sense of the words.

I write so I can remember what it feels like to be a nineteen-year-old girl in college. I write so I know the leaves are changing, who my friends are, what we did this week, and who I want to be now. I write so I remember, and so I never have to feel like a huge part of my life is missing like it is with Catarina.

It had all started with Jenny on a sunny day that turned to twilight, around 6. I was walking to the bus stop from the cultural center in Costa Rica’s capital of San Jose where I was taking a two-week Spanish language class. That’s when I saw her, the exotic-looking lady who captured my eye. She looked to be in her mid-30s, a combination of Central American indigenous Indian mixed in with Spanish/European heritage.

“I’ve made my contribution. I’m done.” He waved his right hand like he was dismissing an entire life.

“Oh, please. I don’t like to hear this.” Mom said, brow furrowed, the corners of her eyes creased, the edges of her lips turned down.

“What do you mean, done? Like done done? With your life?” I was curious about this feeling of his.

“Yes,” he said. He rubbed his hands on the table. It was a tell, his whiskey buzz settling in.

I’m on the roof of a house I’m working on, near Buena Vista park, where I find myself staring longingly at the ships fairly frequently.

Several years ago my brother asked for a dictionary.