Pardon the Small Hiatus

I'm taking a small hiatus from blogging. The papers to grade have accumulated, the Thanksgiving weekend (and Black Friday shopping and Christmas decorating) demanded my attention, and I got sick. Too much for one person, I tell ya. So blogging has taken a back seat.

I will say, however, that soon (I just don't know HOW soon yet) I will be on here to write my review for Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Part I, which we saw this past Saturday night. In short, I was disappointed. It wasn't as magnificent as it could've been. But perhaps, no movie could ever live up to the book's expectations. I don't know. I'll explain more when I write the review. I want to try to churn it out before things get really sticky since we only have a week left of classes (and two more weeks if we count finals) and I have A TON of grading to do. Way too much grading. Did I mention it was a lot of grading? Oh yea, I did. Sigh. I never learn.

But anyway, I digress. Writing on here is taking a small backseat. But when I come back, I have plans. Oh, so many plans, so I hope you stay tuned. :)

Miami Book Fair International 2010

This is one of those busy weekends where several fall and/or literary events are going on and I want to go to them all, only that's not feasible. We allocated Saturday to the Miami Book Fair International at Miami Dade College's Wolfson Campus is Downtown Miami, though we hoped to get there early enough so that we could go to Miracle on 136 Street Parade at The Falls Shopping Center with my son. That last part didn't happen for two reasons: 1) had a crappy night the night before where my son didn't sleep well (which means we didn't sleep well) so we got to the book fair late and 2) we stayed longer than we anticipated.

The Miami Book Fair International is one of those events I look forward to every year. I stalk the website months before the event, looking for clues that detail the upcoming authors. I also look for workshops that may be offered in conjunction with the fair. This year, Cristina Garcia (Dreaming in Cuban) was giving a workshop on the first day of the street fair, Friday, but unfortunately, I had meetings and work that had to be taken care of. The Book Fair consists of both street fair and author readings. Everywhere you look you see authors proudly displaying their books and eager to sign them for you, if you buy them, of course.

The tents - with their red, green, orange roofs that contrast on the white shells - line up the street of MDC's Wolfson Campus/Downtown in the shape of a cross. Book vendors include bookstores (like Books and Books), publishers (like University of Florida Press), self-publishing, electronic publishing, book T-Shirts (these were NEAT! They're T-shirts that resemble sports shirts: a name and number on the back, only the name is a famous author! Some have images on them; e.g. Edgar Allan Poe's shirt had a black raven on it. It was awesome!), literary magazines, the world's smallest books, newspaper subscriptions, and so many more. Some of the booths house an author displaying his/her work.

There's a Children's Alley where characters from children's stories walk through, getting pictures taken with children. Clifford the Big Red Dog, Olivia, Curious George, and others I've seen but don't know were there. My son's favorite was Curious George - when he saw him, my son squealed his name, jumped up and ran towards him with a grin on his face. In Children's Alley, several larger tents, all themed, are set up with stations inside for stories, games, activities for the kids. These were a little too packed so we only looked around before continuing.

We mostly meandered throughout the street fair. I think we covered every side twice: Once before my son fell asleep, and once after. We spoke to authors, we bought books, and we ate ice cream and frozen lemonade. It was a hot day, but in the shade, a nice breeze kept us comfortable.

I enjoyed getting there rather early (not as early as I'd have liked, but before noon). The street fair hadn't gotten packed yet (which it does), and we could comfortably move.

The best line of the day was my husband's. When we arrived, a lady asked him, "What kind of books are you looking for?" To which he replied, without missing a beat, "One with words." She automatically looked at her list only to stop and look at him quizzically; then she just laughed, and my husband laughed, and my son laughed (though he had no idea why he was laughing) and I laughed.

Zoo Miami

Here are some pics I took at Zoo Miami (formerly known as Miami Metro Zoo):

And the hubby took these:

Grasping for Patience

I've debated whether or not to blog about this. On the one hand, I don't have any concrete answers. On the other, I feel I'm *thisclose* to finally getting some answers, whatever those may be. One thing's for certain: the last couple of months have been rough physically and emotionally.

Last Friday I went to visit a rheumatologist because the pain in my joints had started to interfere with regular activities, like brushing my teeth, walking up stairs, typing. The beginning of the semester brought with it subtle pains in my jaw and my wrists, but by last week, I was aching in elbows, ankles, fingers, toes. Forget wearing heels - I couldn't do that (I tried, heeled boots, and boy did I regret it!) Added to that was the fact that sleep has been shaky for the bulk of this semester. My son went through over a month of night terrors, and while he doesn't have those severe episodes anymore, he's still waking up at least once or twice throughout the night (monsters, shadows seem to be the culprits). My memory has been fading. All this I understood to be part of the role of a parent. Suck it up, right? Then, why, when he does sleep, do I still have trouble sleeping? The few times he slept through the night, or those Saturdays when my mom took him, I still woke up a few times or, if I slept through, I still woke up tired. And the week before Halloween, I had my first anxiety attack. This can't just be a turning-30 thing. There's more, but I'll spare you the entire clinical symptom list.

During my regular doctor's office, when I had the anxiety attack and she claimed I was too young to be having a heart attack, she suggested if the joint pain continued to go see a rheumatologist. So I did just that (right when I struggled to brush my teeth and, after, dying my hair, my left arm became practically useless).

I took a leap of faith and picked a name out of the listing. I saw some reviews, all positive, online, so I went with my gut. I wanted a woman doctor (for whatever reason I feel more comfortable with them) and received my appointment with one of the newer doctors in the group the Friday after I got back from Sanibel. After a slew of questions and xrays to the wrists/hands and knees, this is what she said: From the physical examination, she suspects fibromyalgia. I looked up the symptoms to fibromyalgia and they do seem to fit. However, apparently, fibromyalgia is only diagnosed through exclusion of other diseases with similar symptoms: hypothyroidism, lupus, rheumatoid arthritis (RA), vitamin D deficiency, strep-induced RA. So I got six vials of blood taken and I'm anxiously watching my phone for the results. One reason why I'm anxious is because back in 2005, my ANA (antinuclear antibodies) came out positive/elevated and since then, have for the most part remained positive (they have gone back to "normal" once or twice - I get them checked every year). Positive ANAs are, sometimes, precursors to autoimmune disorders, like lupus and RA. So of course, I'm nervous.

The xrays showed I have the beginnings of osteoarthritis in my knees, which really means I have to get up off my behind find time to exercise and lose weight. Walking, according to the doctor, is not enough. I need something like an elliptical machine. Which means gym. And I have no time for gym. I barely have time to grade all my students' papers! But whatever- I have to figure how to make it happen.  The xrays also showed some possible inflammation in my fingers.

But I can't jump to conclusions, so I not-so-patiently wait for the blood work results (which I was told could take up to a week). All I really want is to find out what's going on in me so I can get some energy back and not feel like I'm falling apart. Is that really too much to ask?

The Island, Part 3 (The Conference)

The actual conference - the reason why I was in Sanibel to begin with - started off slow, but ended nicely. The first few workshops I attended were, I think, designed more for the beginning writer. While I'm certainly not a pro (yet), I don't consider myself a beginning. If I were, I wouldn't be teaching writing in any sense of the word! Therefore, I had an issue when the bulk of one of the workshops revolved on the "show don't tell" principle. No shit, Sherlock! I assumed anyone who was in a writing conference would have a grasp on that concept.

But as Thursday bled into Friday, I was happier with my choices and I even carved out some writing time in between the workshops and panels. My favorite workshops were John Dufresne's workshop on the novel, Debra Monroe's workshop on memoir writing, and Denise Duhamel's workshop on poetry. That's not to say I didn't enjoy the rest, only that these were my favorites because I learned new "things" (yes, vague word, I know). The panel on memoir writing was interesting, though I didn't get much out of it that I didn't already know. The panel on online publishing was better; it tackled blogs, Facebook, twitter, publishing, copyrighting, and the pros/cons of publishing in online journals.

Meeting the authors, though, had to be one of the best parts of this conference. It reinforces the ideal that writing and publishing is possible, even with a family. I gained encouragement from the manuscript consultation with Debra Monroe, who was so down to earth, helpful, funny, and real. I was validated as a writer which, sometimes, is needed. Well, at least I do, anyway. In trying to juggle a full-time job (or, like they called it, a "day job"), motherhood, family life, and writing, sometimes I feel like I'm failing at all, because it's too much. I'm splitting myself into too many scarps. Forget binary opposites - there is nothing binary about it!

So it was nice, seeing Margo Rabb, author of young adult fiction, there with her two kids - a baby and a preschooler - and her husband. It was nice hearing Debra Monroe tell me how she got two books published in the first ten years of her daughter's life. It was comforting to know Robert Wilder can teach, write (and publish) and still have time for his family. It was reassuring seeing Steve Almond and his wife, both writers, there with their two kids, navigating the responsibilities of writer and parent.

Damnit - if they (and countless other writers) can do it, so can I! ;)

Of course, ironically, after the wonderful review of my manuscript, I received in the mail, when I got home, two more rejection letters. So close. Oh, so close. But I'm revisiting the pieces and sending out more work. If only the wait wasn't so excruciating.

The Island, Part 2

There are very few "chains" here on this island. No Starbucks. No Burger King. No Marriott. Most of the stores, restaurants, coffee shops, and hotels are individually owned places. For this city girl who has become alarmingly comfortable with known names (and known food), this was disconcerting. Thank goodness for the Trevor, the front desk supervisor at the Sundial, who knew the area.

That's how we ended up, on Thursday, at the Island Cow for "linner" and Sanibel Bean for coffee.

The Island Cow is a cute establishment. When we got there, the large smiling cut-out of a cow greeted us. Outside, wooden beach chairs in pastels - blue, lavender, pink, yellow - decorated the entrance to the restaurant. An empty parrot cage stood near the door, and I briefly wondered where the parrot was. The food was tasty. I had the Beer Battered Fish and Chips with New England cod and home-made chips. My husband had the Dream Burger, and it was, in the words of my son, "kind of good."

The Sanibel Bean embodies the appeal of local coffee shops, at least, the appeal they hold with me. According to our "guide," the Sanibel Bean is family owned. When I walked in, pictures of customers holding an "I Love Sanibel Bean" sign decorated the walls, and the more I looked, the more pictures I found. Behind the register, there were a variety of coffee beans in plastic canisters, labeled by flavor: French Vanilla, Sumatra, Cinnamon, Colombian. I ordered a Latte Caramel, which was not quite my Caramel Macchiato, but was sweet and satiated that need for coffee dessert. It was, though, a little to sweet, so every subsequent visit I ordered a Vanilla Latte, which was perfect: sweet, milky, and enough caffeine to keep me awake and alert. On one of my breaks during the conference, I sat in the adjacent, screened-in section. This was the sit-down area, in a perfect blend of indoors and outdoors, and it was decorated with small, constant lights.

From there we explored the Blue Giraffe, where we ate two days in a row. Their Blue Giraffe Bistro Salad - which had lettuce, mandarine oranges, strawberries, walnuts, blue cheese (I opted not to have the blue cheese) and raspberry vinaigrette - with walnut crusted tilapia was fabulous. The combination of sweet, sour and salty comforted me. I've normally had this version of a salad with chicken but was won over with the tilapia. The other day I tried their lobster bisque and turkey/bacon wrap, but I was somewhat disappointed. Two spoonfuls into the bisque and I pushed it back, not able to take one more sip. To compensate, the waiter didn't charge us for the key lime pie - a home made delicacy that had just the right amount of tartness. We appreciated the gesture.

We also visited Jerry's Supermarket. It was clean, smaller than a usual Publix, but replete with that familiarity that only comes from a small, island establishment. The actual supermarket sat on the second floor of a building on stilts; the first floor was the designated parking and a conveyer belt, which we later learned was to bring down the groceries which an employee would then place in our car. I didn't feel in Florida. Jerry's Supermarket shares the building with several other boutiques and stores, as well as with five or six parrots, each of a different species. I can't remember them all now, but one of them (it was either Mia or Babe) like to say "What?" as we passed by while another (again, either Mia or Babe) croaked out "Hello" - my son scurried up and down the benches, leaning in to the plastic railings that separated the birds to the rest of us, and saying, "Mami, look!" He had fun.

One thing that I couldn't get over, even at the end, was how nice everyone was. Drivers actually respected the pedestrian crosswalks, and gave the right-of-ways. No one honked, yelled, or saluted with middle fingers. Everyone, all strangers, said "Hello" or "Good morning" or any other form of salutation, the good kinds. My husband rented a bike with a trailer, and both he and my son toured the island, from the wetlands and reserve to the playground to the barber shop. And all he could say was, "Wow, everyone's so nice! No one tried to run me off the road while I was on the bike!" That says a lot; try doing the same in the streets of South Florida, and you'll be lucky to get to your destination in one piece.

The Island, Part 1

Sanibel Island is a small, heavily wooded island on the southern, Gulf Coast of Florida. It's tranquil, quiet, the only sounds coming from the crashing of the waves and the hum of the passing cars. I have yet to see an aggressive driver lean on his (or her) horn impatiently because the car in front is turning. But then again, I've only been here for one full day.

At night, Sanibel Island is dark. Not the kind of dark where you can still see in front of you because of some dim street light in the back corner. No, I'm talking about the kind of dark that comes with no artificial lights (no street lights, no house lights) mingled with abundant vegetation. There are no outlines of houses or trees, or bridges. Only blackness. It's the kind of darkness where you're swallowed whole, or where you walk with your hands in front of you, trying to find the way because you can't see. We arrived at Sanibel Island in this darkness, since the sun had already set when we drove through from the mainland and over the bridges - narrow, one-way bridges - and were engulfed in the darkness. I don't like crossing on bridges over any body of water - possibly as a result of the flimsy, wooden bridge suspended over a river by ropes, that we'd always have to drive over to get to my uncle's farm in Colombia, a bridge that sunk and rose and creaked, as if our weight were too much for its ropes and wooden planks - but I like less going over them in the dark, where I can't see the waters below me.

Thank God for GPS on phones. With it, we maneuvered through the darkness and made our way to the hotel. Imagine our dismay when we arrived, tired, cranky, late, only to see that where we were staying was more akin to a motel on the beach, refuge for passerby's, hitchhikers, and prostitutes. Our room was small and had the pungent scent of cigarette smoke and mildew covered up with air freshener. The one in-wall air conditioner hummed roughly. The carpet seemed dirty, with dry carcasses of centipedes, or worms. The white curtains had red stains on them, and they reminded me of a murder scene in a hotel room that's been cleaned up, only they missed a spot. I could not stay there. No way, no how. I was not sleeping in this dirty and decaying room with my husband and son. I didn't care if we had to sleep in the car. We were shown three other rooms, all in similar conditions, before I finally said: We're looking for another hotel. Now.

At 10 PM at night, in the darkness that envelops Sanibel Island, we locked ourselves in our car, with my son in the back asking continuously "What are we doing?" and the rain falling furiously on our car, drowning out the country music radio station we were playing. We took out our phones and began searching for hotels in the area. The downfall was that unless we got to the place, and unless there was light, there would be no way to really see what kind of accommodations we were getting ourselves into. In our search, we came up with the Sundial and in that moment of desperation it clicked - we'd stayed there before and we'd liked it. We called, there were rooms available, and we drove the five minutes to our new hotel.

The new room was better. It was actually a one-bedroom apartment with a full kitchen, for only $30 more a night. We settled in restlessly, and shortly after midnight, fell asleep. It was a night of wakings, night terrors, and little sleep.

The Need to Write

I never feel the need to write more than when I'm stressed, wedged between responsibility and whim, on the edge of my own sanity. The semester begins and so do the stacks of papers to grade, classes to plan, committees to attend (and now, chair). That leaves little time for my own writing. The weekly essays I was getting out have halted, a screeching, smoke-building halt. I just don't have time.

But I have to make time because that writing is what keeps me sane. It's that simple.

So I'm stealing a few seconds between papers to come on here and blog. Because I don't have the time to work on anything longer. Because my trips in quiet solitude (or Starbucks solitude) are too few now to allow me to type out anything longer than a couple paragraphs of meandering thoughts. Because I want to write these stories that are swimming in my mind, reminding me of their existence, but I don't have the time to get them out. And it's frustrating. Infuriatingly frustrating.

It's not all gloom, however. In two weeks, I'll be attending the Sanibel Island Writer's Conference. I'm excited because I'll finally have a few days to write - just write. I'm hoping to attend some workshops on memoir, fiction, and young adult fiction. Maybe poetry, too, if I can fit the schedule. But my main projects now involve memoir/personal essay, fiction and young adult fiction, so that's where I hope to be. My hubby and son can enjoy the beaches and I'll enjoy the writing. I'm also excited because I have a manuscript consultation. I prepared and sent out the 10-page scene of my father's death and look forward to receiving feedback on it. At least I feel as if I'm getting some work done on my memoir.

I'm also waiting to hear back from Creative Nonfiction magazine and Brevity.com. I keep receiving rejections, but they haven't kept me down. Each rejection I receive puts me that much closer to receiving an acceptance. It also makes me better. I take that rejected piece, review it again, revise further, and resubmit. Sometimes, the piece is finished, for me, so I just resubmit. I wanted to submit a couple more pieces to Narrative Magazine and Glimmer Train (among others), but I haven't been able to work on those essays. We'll see if I get to make the deadlines.

But right now, my priority is to keep the words moving, dancing on the screen (or the page). My anxiety/panic attack this week is a confirmation that I need an outlet for my stress, and while others need to exercise, I need to write. Somehow, someway, I need to make that time.

Unhinged

I feel myself becoming
unhinged
the seams tearing
one by one,
breaking.
Submerged, perhaps,
but more than that
sequestered
inside the four walls
that bleed yellow into
a flowered wallpaper
like my father had in my Barbie house,
long ago, before he became unhinged.
The voices don't speak,
I hear silence except for the
pat-pat-pat of my heart,
the tempo rising so I cover my ears
but I still hear it.
Loud.
Strong.
My hands shake, my chest caves in.
I can't breathe.

Birthday Blues, or Singulair Side-Effect?

I've been feeling rather blue for the last two days. (I find that term so funny. Why blue? Why not maroon or green or yellow? The colors we associate with moods are interesting, for sure.)

Yesterday was a real doozy without a big reason. I felt odd, out of it. I couldn't make a decision and just felt lifeless. Sad. Overwhelmed. As if pressure were squeezing me slowly. My poor husband. It was my birthday weekend and Saturday we'd had a nice, small dinner at my mom's. I was okay then, only tired. Yesterday, we were supposed to go to a wedding in the afternoon and I was looking forward to dressing up, going out (sans kids) and dancing. It didn't happen. Earlier in the day, my husband tried cheering me up by forcing me to get a manicure and pedicure, which I hadn't gotten in several months, and it was okay. But it didn't cheer me up. All of this was minor and consciously, I knew it. I knew I had no reason to feel the way I did, but I just couldn't shake the sadness off. I felt like a dog wanting to shake herself after a bath but no matter how hard I shook, the water still clung on. I cried myself to sleep last night.

Of course, my son woke up several times last night, which means I didn't get a good night's rest. I woke up feeling better but the veil was still over me. I felt just like I did a few years back when I went through depression. There was no rhyme or reason; it just was. I wondered if I was feeling the birthday blues since tomorrow's my birthday, though that's new for me, too, because I love my birthdays. I love celebrating. I don't mind being another year older if I get to celebrate!

At work, I wasn't my usual cheerful self. I dragged through the day though I did start to feel progressively better towards the latter part. By the time I got home, I felt livelier. I didn't feel the pressure. I wasn't suffocating. I was aggravated and irritated by some things, but within my normal self. I was relieved. And then I thought - wait, I didn't take Singulair today. Click. My allergies were bothering me. They didn't bother me the last two days when I took them. Click. Oh crap - what are the side effects for Singulair? Click. So I looked it up, and here's what it says (online):

SINGULAIR may cause serious side effects.

Behavior and mood-related changes have been reported. Tell your healthcare provider right away if you or your child have any of these symptoms while taking SINGULAIR: 

• agitation including aggressive behavior or hostility
• bad or vivid dreams
• depression
• disorientation (confusion)
• feeling anxious
• hallucination (seeing or hearing things that are not really there)

• irritability
• restlessness
• sleep walking
• suicidal thoughts and actions (including suicide)
• tremor
• trouble sleeping

Great. That's the problem with any type of synthetic medications - side effects. Loads of them, too! Of course, I'm not feeling most of these, just a mild case of the blues (and maybe some agitation and irritability and anxiety), but still, maybe I'm going to skip the Singulair tomorrow and put a call in to my doctor. Just in case. Of course, I researched this after I took it this afternoon because my allergies were driving me crazy. Eh, we'll see how I feel tomorrow. I'm just happy to know that maybe this is just a side effect of the medication and I'm not depressed about turning older! ;)

Miami Skyline

I never get tired of seeing the Miami skyline. Or maybe it's because I don't see it that often that every time I have to drive towards Downtown and enter the highway, either from US1 or from 836), I suck my breath in and hold it for a few seconds. Awe washes over me and I feel poetic. You'd never think concrete buildings, glass, and towering structures could do that, but they do. As much as I feel I belong in the country (because, really, I'm a country, mountain girl at heart), the city sights really do it for me.

Today was one of those days. After rushing out of a doctor's appointment, and needing to head up north for a meeting, I decided to take a different route, one that took me by the city's center. As soon as my car entered the lanes of I95, I felt the change. The towers of white, gray and green rose from the side of the bridges and I inhaled sharply. It's beautiful. On either side of me, the buildings grew. Blues and yellows came in focus, adding to the palate. The glass window panels of the buildings reflected the sun; we had no rain today, so the clouds couldn't take away from the beauty.

The most striking part about this scenery is the contrast of wealth and poverty. I guess it's like this in many centers, but on that drive on I95, the differences are sharp. The roads need work, the cement sides are peeling, with graffiti in some corners. New buildings are erected everywhere, next to dilapidated towers, some barely standing. Camillus House stands next to the highway, reminding travelers of the reality of the homeless that, in this plummeting economy, have grown in number.

The pictures of the skyline are abundant. It's fed into advertisements for tourism precisely because of its beauty. It's undeniably impressive. But just looking at the buildings, really looking, gives us a glimpse beyond the facade.

New Bookmarks

Here are two more bookmarks. I have eleven more I'm working on, which I hope to finish sometime in the next week or so. It all depends on what happens with my writing and my grading.

My Love Affair: Starbucks

I admit it, rather candidly at first, my eyes downcast, my cheeks flushed: I have a love affair with Starbucks. Or, rather, with coffee shops with writing-inducing, relaxing atmospheres. There's just something about walking into a Starbucks (or the like), and inhaling deeply the rich scent of brewing coffee, that sets me right. It's my happy place. I can get a quick fix and just drop by to get my usual: a tall Caramel Macchiato; or, as I prefer, I can claim a table, bring out my laptop, set up my station, and just lean back and dive into my world, my memories. This is my time.

Not all coffee shops are created equal, not even all Starbucks's. The ideal ones have a few things in common: friendly baristas, good music that's not too loud (and I have no specifics for good music; I have an eclectic taste), and a collection of customers that come and go, leaving whispers of their days behind. That, for me, is perfection. Is that such a bad thing? Perhaps for my wallet and my waist line, though I do have my rewards card (so I can indulge in free coffee periodically) and I do limit myself (to one or two treats a day, depending on how hectic the day is).

So there. My confession for today.

Lost Treasures

Today I relished in a day off from having to drive up to work. No thirty-six-mile commute for me. Instead, after dropping my son off at school, I drove three minutes to the nearest Starbucks, where everyone knows my name (I have the melody from Cheers in my mind...) I parked myself there, with a venti Caramel Macchiato, and proceeded to rewrite the scene of my father's death. I had decided that would be the scene I wanted to benefit from the manuscript consultation at Sanibel Island Writer's Conference because it's been one of the hardest to write. It will more than likely be one of the last chapters in my book, and one that is still raw. It's been two and a half-years since he died, but I still remember every second of that day (though some parts have begun to fade along the edges and time has warped a little.)

I sat for almost four hours. I had a six-page "draft" I had churned out about a year and a half-ago. But it was all telling. It was a synopsis of what happened, but not real writing. So I put it aside and started fresh from memory, choosing a starting point that wasn't the beginning, and worked it. I ended with ten pages, the limit I needed for the manuscript consultation. I know I can expand it more, though I don't know if I need to. We'll see how the consultation goes. It's a deeply personal piece, one that I hope can stand on its own (in narrative) and that will be a part of the bigger picture (the book.)

After I finished, I had a quick bite at Subway (the usual - six-inch turkey and provolone cheese with lettuce, tomatoes, cucumbers, spinach, oil, vinegar, salt and pepper - I don't stray from that either.) Then I  returned a pair of shoes, and sat in my car, not sure where to next. I had at least another hour before I could go pick up my little one, since he was napping at school, and then it hit me: Go to mom's house. I had to go anyway, because she'd made some Abui yogurt and soup, so it was the perfect excuse to go and esculcarle for the music sheets my dad had written me.

It's always the same when I go to my mom's house: I expect to see my dad. Even though a chair now sits at the head of the dining table, which was his place, and since he was in a wheelchair, didn't need a chair, there was a glass of water on the table and a small prescription drug bottle on that side. My mom's taken it over, but it reminds me of him.

(Note: I keep saying house, but it's an apartment. We just always called it la casita when referring to it among ourselves.)

Anyway, my first greeting was a large roach on its back, dying. I sprayed some Raid on it, which caused it to start wiggling, causing me to itch. I despise roaches. I emptied out a small, white trashcan my mom had and placed it over the roach, giving it privacy while it died and giving me comfort that it wouldn't suddenly spring back to life and chase me. Ha!

I went into my old bedroom, where I last knew the music sheets were, and I started searching. I looked around, moved books and boxes, removed bags, and found nothing. I prayed - Lord, illuminate me, give me an inclination where these things may be - and then I looked up. On the uppermost shelf of the closet where things, only I couldn't tell exactly what those things were. So I moved a chair, climbed up, and moved some more. Sure enough, all the way to the back and right was a stack of folders and a white box. I got them and saw what I'd been looking for and so much more: awards, certificates, letters, music sheets, pictures, my baby book, school years memories, and old stories and poems I'd written! There was also a folder with information, schedule, etc. of when I played the bells for the superintendent of schools back in 1990 representing Everglades Elementary. Cool!

I came home with my treasure, eager to sift through it. I discovered (and somehow, I'd forgotten) that I wrote short stories when I was in high school, the early years. I remember writing poetry (really cliched, love-struck, rhyming poetry) because poems plagued my journals. But in a notebook, there they were: typed short stories with character development on a side sheet, typed in the first computer I owned: a hand-me-down dot-matrix computer! Insane. They were better than the poems I wrote (though that doesn't necessarily say much about my writing back then)!

The best part, by far, has been the letters written to my mom and me by my dad, back in early 1990 when he went through a health crisis. He went to Colombia to get better, believing more in the doctors there than those here. These letters now give me a glimpse into his desperation, frustration and, more importantly, love. His love for us. His affection. I don't remember that, and I wish I did. I wish I remember his telling me he loved me and he was proud of me. I wish I remember that affection. I don't, but I now have these letters as proof they were real.

What prompted the search, though, and which I found, was the song he wrote for me when I turned nine. He played the piano, and he wanted me to learn. He also wrote music and lyrics, mostly religious ones when he was a priest. (I have recently found his collection of sheet music with church songs.) Well, he wrote two songs for me, that I remember: when I turned nine and when I went to Colombia by myself (I was also nine, almost ten.)

Here are the words to my daddy's song (in Spanish, of course):

Mujercita eres ya
nueve son tus añitos. (Repeat)
El señor, que es tu Padre,
no te fallará jamás.
Siempre fiel a su amor.
Conducir te sabrá
por senderos oscuros
y llevarte a la gloria
de la ciencia y la virtud.

So yep, that was it. Short, but sweet and spiritual.