Fish shacks made out of wood scraps and old rusted zinc sheets, these were the houses I remembered most. Their nooks and crannies resonated under the weight of children at play, scratching the linoleum floors. Bats flew into the living room for a ringside seat of a dubbed Perry Mason rerun. I’d cover my hair and scream. Living was often in black and white, no worse than mother making us wash our hands every time we walked in the house. We had more handkerchiefs than shoes. I’d stop by the pharmacy on my way home from school to eye the records, Zippos, and Bulovas. Bought my first Beatles album there, swapped that Bulova my aunt gave me on my 13th birthday for Vetiver. Days were as slow as a horse showing up in our living room on a hot, rainy day. It wouldn’t move, it just stood there for as long as it rained, three or four days. Mother would scream: shoot it . I’d wait until it dropped dead. © Sergio A. Ortiz. Publisher: Flutter Press, 2009
