I am quite intelligent. Sometimes I find myself firmly believing I can even go up against the geniuses of the world, such as Einstein, or Mr. William Shakespeare if I may boldly say so myself. Unfortunately, I have shown little interest in the American dream, and have allowed my fellow peers to continue on the riveting competition I silently gave up to pursue a life of peace, and exciting adventures around the world. God made so many wonders around the world, wasn’t he trying to look for attention? Well, he’s gotten mine, and at 45 years old I am able to say that I have visited at least 30 countries. I should also include that I inherited a lifetimes worth of money after both my parents died two months after my high school graduation with an infectious contagion of malaria while visiting Africa. I went off to college two months later and left with a mathematics degree and a husband hand in hand ready the explore the world we both felt we deserved to come to a unity with.


I have thick black hair that dangles firmly from my head, that I find reminiscent to the late Indian tribe native Pocahontas. My skin is a murky tan, covered by a shine of thick arm hair. As a pure descendent of Simon Bolivar, we Hispanic women tend to have a lot of hair, and very thick. These days, I have settled myself in Rome. I live in one of those famous cramped neighborhoods you see in films filled with homes side by side, the paint crisply tearing off at the corners. I must say, it gives it a nice effect. In the morning I hear the rattle of the bicycles going down our street, and the exhaust of little automobiles engines going off. I wake up to the smell of sweet flour, the advantage of living right above an original Italian bakery. In the distance I can hear the people of Italy enthusiastically speak outside my home, and next door the sounds of men and women cheering, “ITALIA. ITALIA. ITALIA”, for the latest football game. As I look around my home, with its chiseled dark blue walls and old hardwood floor, I remember back to the day we bought this home together. The day we came with all our possessions, and found this kind and spacious condo I live in today. We were both majestically young, bright people, waiting to have the adventures we talked about in the middle of the night during our study sessions. We were aspirational then, to start our lives, and create a story of our own, together. We spent years afterwards traveling, but we always made sure we had that little condo to come home to.

And now, I can see my daughter come through the door, her school uniform flowing in with the breeze coming through the window. I stand up and silently take her back pack off her soldiers and set it on the couch. We both stand there silently, looking at each other, chests’ rising up and down, and I can see and feel the person inside her. His heart is encased right there, where her dying heart once was. Her self is in every aspect remnants of her father, and so different from my own.

My husband passed away nearly two years ago, when my daughter was 11 years old. Two years ago, my daughter was stuck in a hospital bed for six months, and was told her heart was not going to work anymore. It didn’t pump the blood it needed to, and the doctor told her she was going to die. She was completely reasonable about it actually. While I would be outside yelling and weeping to the doctor of his stupidity, her father would be inside, sitting beside her, just talking about normal things, like movies, or music. I didn’t understand how he maintained his composure, but he did, and really I saw him cry only once. He was strong enough for both of us, and that’s why he was able to willingly give his life for her. One week later, he scheduled a doctor’s appointment while I was out buying groceries, and when I came back I found two letters addressed to both my daughter, and to me. And in two weeks’ time, my 11 year old came home with me, healthy, able to walk again, the color flushed back into her skin. We came home only me and her, and the rest of the night we stayed up watching the Rocky Balboa series.

We were still standing there five minutes later. Finally, she calmly walks up to me, puts her arms around me and snuggles her head in my stomach. I hold her back tightly and smile to her. Today is my husband’s 2nd anniversary. We have planned out the day accordingly. We will go downstairs and buy Two Large loaves of sweet bread, and then we will go to the park and eat it on our bench that we bought a year ago. We will make sure to throw crumbs of our bread to the pigeons my husband visited on a daily basis. Then we will go to the cemetery and give him some flowers that we picked from wherever we could find them. Finally, we will order pizza from his favorite pizzeria and come. Then, we will spend the rest of the night staying up to watch the complete Rocky Balboa series and sing along loudly to my husband, and her father’s anthem.