The House on Dolores Street
There is a writer in my fingers because my lola taught me at a young age to question
truth. She told me, “Anak, look at the sky. Look at the cacti lining the pavement.”
I looked and looked, walking so close to the wall of cacti that acted as our fence.
She hosed me down after that. “You see, anak, when you only listen, you get wet.”
The Pool Hall Across the Street
Once upon a time, you fell in love with a boy who loved to shoot pool. He would take his
cue stick, lift it in the air, look at it carefully for any marks, any creases, and let the
white chalk from his palms cover him in a haze.
He always did this, as if it were his ritual. Then, he would bend his knees and squint his eyes,
so that his glasses perked up and his thick eyebrows became shaped like a “V.” You loved this man,
this boy, and though he would gamble with the owner of the pool hall for burgers and always lose,
you loved him anyways, because of his hands.