Remembering Dolores Street
I found a photograph of the old, white veranda I used to play on when I was a child.
It was in a book, tucked away in Go Tell It On A Mountain. With my fingers, I touched
the thinness of the plastic picture. It felt light, like a memory. I remembered the fountain
filled with lush leaves and the stone angel in the middle, who carried a pot that seemed to
fit the weight of the world, like my thrown sampaguita petals. I remembered my flailing arms
my brown running legs that failed to do a cartwheel because of fear. My eyes wandered to
the beige paper and stopped at the color of the underlined words: It is better to marry than
to burn. The black words had become cacophonous in my mind, and I laughed because I no
longer believed them. I closed the book and took the photograph out, laying it besides me on
my desk. It seemed as if I did it intentionally, leaving treasures for me to find or question
in pages between words.