AAs soon as the dark paint gets washed off the sky, and when the needle points
the large 5,
the clashing and banging starts.

It sounds like there's a quinceanera
in the kitchen. No, it's more like
a cacerolazos.

Annoyed and angry, I march into the kitchen
“What's going on?” I ask,
putting a hand on my hip.

She turns around like a little puppet.
Those friendly ones you see in a TV show.
Constantly smiling, warm, always trying to make you happy.

“Come have some breakfast,” she says.
She shows me a basket full of strawberries and apples.
It's not really what I want to eat.

I push the baskets out of my way, and
the fruits roll out, falling to the ground.
“It's all right, I'll clean that up,”
my mom says.

She bends down and picks the fallen fruit.
With her cracked, hardened hand, she
wipes the surface.
“See? All good,” she says and puts them back into the basket.

I'm standing by the table, speechless.
“I'll just leave these here,” she says,
“In case you get hungry later.”