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The female character in my prose is nameless.
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Disregarding the fact that it is my cousin’s birthday, I remember how we once celebrated All Saints’ Day. Grandma dangled all the doorknobs in my auntie’s house with rosaries. It kept all the spirits from entering the rooms, she said. She offered food for the departed. A sole plate full of the same birthday meal caught my eye. I asked mom if I could take a pinch off that lechon. No.
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I caught her taking a swig out of the orange juice tetra pack. There was a steady stream about her cheek.
A clownish commotion in the living room was taking the spotlight. That was where I left Cheesecake and Beefcake. They were the cheeky aunties of dear old Clara. You noticed her when she came in just right after me, didn’t you? There were bright drip-drops on her fleece-white polo shirt.
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