I’ve seen those cascading waves, crashing against the rocks spiking out from the sea. I wondered: Am I like those rocks? Like one big animal, snoring, rumbling shifting positions. It bothered me, oddly, like torture. How could anyone rest here! But the time for rest was coming, candles melted into wax puddles like “lava”, the molten flowing rock from the stories. “They’ll be out soon” I thought to myself , and then…darkness, musty, sweaty darkness. Slap and tussle from all sides. In that torture there was isolation, and in that isolation, the seed of thought. Matchboxes were everywhere, and I put them to good use. I wanted to keep this knowledge of something new. The picture of my life had been drawn on, and I wanted to acknowledge its existence.
Slip
And it was done, a piece of my life locked away in a tiny space. I looked at Mother, who was a statue. I wondered if she was still alive. A warm glow casts a shadow over her. Deep breaths, while she fiddled with her fingers: Her go-to move when stressed. “Maybe I’m more alike to that rock than I thought”. Even the waves sloshing around silently beyond those old, crusted walls bothered me. It tickled me in an uncomfortable way, and it kept on, scratching the back of my mind. Rattling, shaking, our fragile leather suitcase (which let out a pungent, moldy smell, far greater than the odor of built-up sweat) was a seat for my sister. We stuffed our most valuable possessions, but those were items looked poor in the face of those rich men, who drove around in their cars.
God… I hope America is better than this
(This piece of writing is based on the drama work around this book. Most likely, there will be more work relating to this)