The way my mom restuccoed the house the color of the rosy pink mesas where she was born. The way she kept a wire fence when everyone else was putting up privacy walls because it reminded her of the corral back home. The way the doorbell chime reminded her of the sheep returning before dusk, before the bats came out, when she could still run from those bats to the outhouse, shawl over her head and a broom to shoo them. She and Sisters running hand-in-hand, laughter and screams. When she knew her beauty and thought us beautiful, too. Before winter came and my hands turned white, and she said, “Oh my children,” sounding just like a wise elder, “you’re so white.” …
Cynthia J. Sylvester