I n m y mother ’s bedroom, behind the family pictures and the jar that holds her wedding-day fl wers , a painting sits on a shelf . It’s a painting of me, my eyes almost closed, like I’m dreaming . M y br aids hang lik e coal-color ed ropes . My face fill the fr ame, so big and so close that if you look long enoug h, it starts to look lik e a whole land — brown hills melting int o yellow valleys melting int o r ed riverbeds , and even the riv ers’ silver lig ht, running smooth over the rocks.
2
Made with FlippingBook - Online catalogs