The House on Mango Street
I had to look to where she pointed ----- the third floor, the paint peeling, wooden bars Papa had nailed on the windows so we wouldn't fall out.
But my mother's hair, my mother's hair, like little rosettes, like candy circles all curly and pretty because she pinned it in pincurls all day, sweet to put your nose into when she is holding you, holding you and holding safe, is the warn smell of bread before you bake it, is the smell when she makes room for you on her side of the bed
Marin, under the streetlight, dancing by herself, is singing the same song somewhere, I lnow. Is waiting for a car stop, a star to fall, someone to changing her life.
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