In English my name means hope. In Spanish it means too many letters. It means sadness, it means waiting. It is like the number nine. A muddy color. It is the Mexican records my father plays on Sunday mornings when he is shaving, songs like sobbing.
“. . . under the streetlight, dancing by herself, is singing the same song somewhere. I know. Is waiting for a car to stop, a star to fall, someone to change her life”
You want a friend, she says. Okay, I'll be your friend. But only till next Tuesday. That's when we move away
“Who inherited her mama’s rolling pin and sleepiness, is young and smart and studies for the first time at the university. Two trains and a bus, because she doesn’t want to spend her whole life in a factory or behind a rolling pin.”
“. . . Who is still young and getting old from leaning out the window so much, gets locked indoors because her husband is afraid Rafaela will run away since she is so beautiful to look at.”
“Cuando, Cuando, Cuando? she asks, Ay, caray! We are home. . . . Ay!Mamacita,who does not belong, every once in a while lets out a cry, hysterical, high, as if he had torn the only skinny thread that kept her alive, the only road out to that country.”