By Grace D'Aguiler
She was not my mother.
At the stoplight that day, I saw them: my hero and a stranger.
Even at 10, I knew they stood too close.
His kiss was brief, but made a secret promise.
I stayed on that jangly San Juan corner, transfixed. A big coffee momma dangled a three-year-old on her generous hip and shared her billowy, linen skirt with me.
She was not my mother.
Salsa music drifted over from a bodega. There would be no street dancing.
I would not walk here after school again.
The island light changed.
I ran home to Mami.
Clever! I would like to read more of your work.
Fantastic story!
I love the description in this Grace. It feels like I’m there! Very nice.