All summer she twirled in pearls and satin gowns, pale as a mushroom in the attic. Sometime her aunt or her father would hint that the field of Queen Anne’s lace at the end of the road was chock-full of children her age. Her age was suddenly uncertain as the woman’s breath rising and falling in an oxygen tent all summer long. Nothing to do but wait. In the stale heat of the attic, in the rippled full-length mirror, she posed in velvet, in chiffon, in her mother’s useless clothes: waiting for her breasts to blossom and fill the loose bodice of her grief. But time goes fast and Beatriz Soon will be fifteen, and The joy of juth will be radiant and every thing will bloom and Papi Ivan, and Mon Ana Will be happy very soon.

Author Ana Maria Barrios Octubre 21 de 2007