At the age of 3, the small girl made me. I was created in a pueblo south of Chiapas, in a plaza bathed in glistening light and captivating hues. A ball of yarn was used to tie the first knot. With her delicate fingers, the small girl made me look lavish, with flower patterns, colors kept in tin tubs, and tassels that swayed with the wind. Neglecting the fact that the small girl was hurting from her home life, she continued to show kindness to the world constantly, turning me into a lover of all things, including myself and all flaws. The little girl is now 16, and yet she still has me. Life has become difficult since Mama's passing, and we have to work day in and day out. Every day, I am carried as if I were a bag of bricks to the cantina, El Vientre Gordo De Las Ranas. Every day is the same until he is seen scrubbing the bar. That man, with his gorgeous hair and a height that could reach the Alps, captivated the small girl's eyes. The next thing you realize, he's down on one knee in the midst of the mesmerizing plaza, asking her to take his hand and be his forever. The small girl, now 20, is no longer so little. Day after day, all of her small children pull, tug, poke and stretch me. I suppose I don't resent the attention, however, I'm not going to have children. One day, I noticed that the atmosphere had shifted; the small girl's children were now having their own children. Time flew even faster when those children began to have children! Every day I was yanked and jerked, but then she appeared. She was exactly like the small girl. The little girl was ambitious, yet timid. She, like my small girl, was compassionate to the world, preferring me to her brothers and sisters, carrying me around everywhere with her. I returned to the plaza, with all of its glitzy lights and colors. However, it appeared that the living was different, the pueblo was having difficulty finding work. But there was this ideal place called America, which I had heard was a land of opportunity. That's where I and the little girl went. We passed through a harrowing border with men openly carrying guns as if we were criminals, some of my tassels were ripped and my colors were ruined, but this was home. I enjoyed my time here, but I missed my small girl. The small girl now 102, and she still remembers me. I've heard she still talks about me, perhaps I'll see her again one day.

 

– Hope V.

Relationship:  Im/migrant Im/migrant