Notes

I learned that I was different when I was a very small girl: when the tan skin, which molted it own layer over my body at the time, never began to turn the color of white. My father, whom no one ever spoke about, told me that I was a beautiful child. That I had skin everyone desired. I nodded, noting in my own skin the exquisite fairness of my own shell.

I stared at the luminous sky, shielding my eyes from the sun with my hand. The familiar El Salvadorian heat bathed my skin with its warmth, giving me a homey feeling. As soon as the plane landed, my stomach jittered like butterflies at the thought of finally seeing my father after so long.

Just as his eyes landed on mine, I truly felt at home. It had been the first time I'd seen him since the deportation six years ago. He hadn't changed much. His black hair was still short hanging in loose curls atop his head and his sharp, hawk-like eyes the same brown as mine.

“Diana, you haven’t changed.” He said, taking a step back to look at me. “You’re still my beautiful little girl.”

I smile wrapping my arms around him. It felt so long ago since I’ve drowned myself in his bearhugs. Tears threatened to leave my eyes, but I don’t let them because if I do then I would feel weak.

“Come along. Let’s go home.”

Yes, I was finally home.

Wind rattled the large leaves as we drove passed the villages and into the big city. Father had called mother about a month before graduation, asking for my information to buy my airplane ticket. In these coming years, I had so much to say to him, questions, thoughts, stories. Every little detail of my life I wanted to share with him but now that I was finally here in person. I’m at a loss for words.

In a comfortable state with my eyes closed my mother came to mind. Her angry prayers to God, her gentle cries in the night when she thought no one was watching. I was there.
Together forever, mom would tell me.
I needed to hang onto this anger I can’t let his actions pass so easily.



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