I've just finished reading Sandra Cisneros' House on Mango Street. It's a series of vignettes of characters and memories of a latino family and their neighbors.
After reading it, I can't help but think I have many stories inside of me. My stories are painted differently, but they are here.
My favourite pieces are Bums in the Attic, Beautiful and Cruel, The Three Sisters, and A House of my Own. Hairs is good, too.
Little bits of the stories talk to me.
My blue house on June Street. I had a lilac grove and swings and a shed. There was a forsythia tree and an anemic tree in the back that was not good for climbing.
We had a gorgeous weeping willow, too, The house was surrounded by huge blooms in the spring. Black ants would would drink from these flowers. On the walk up there was a rose bush and a lamp post.
I think we had three steps up. I remember the windows had shutters. We had a driveway and a fence. Lots of grass.
I have to realistically think about the decade or so I have left with my parents. Ten years to collect their stories And what about titis and tios? Primos I have a little but more time with -- perhaps.
My first stereo had a turn table and an 8-track. I put records on it. Peter and the Wolf was one of my favourites. It had a great version of the 3 Billy Goats Gruff on it.
The bigger/ the goat/ the bigger/ the meal/
AH HAH HAH HAH!
The/ big/ ger/ the/ meal/ the/ bet/ ter/ I/ feel
I loved how he sung that song and how he used the guitar to punctuate his words. It was hilarious. I can resing it now, too.
Some things stick in the memory net. Some things we never catch. It's all timing. We scoop, we catch. Sometimes the net breaks, all the memories are lost. And the boat of life floats forward. The net is left behind.