Come work at the table, Mama nagged, You’re cleaning the floor with your clothes. Well then I’m doing you a favor, I retorted as my stomach brushed the hard wooden floor. Markers, glitter, paper and pencils were strewn all around me. I was drowning in a sea of art supplies, but I didn’t mind.

Don’t be a smart mouth, Mama warned as she continued chopping cebollas and I went back to drawing the president of planet Bob, with horse ears and a lion tail. The glitter and pencils danced on the paper, giggling as they mingled with one another.
       

Then came the long awaited footsteps on the porch. I jerked my head up like a dog that just saw dinner being put on the table. Then, like leaves crunching, the lock in the door twisted. There was a struggle for a moment, a tiny fight with the key, before the door finally swung open.

I jumped up and dashed across the hall, wrapping my arms around Daddy's thick puffy jacket, like a blue nylon cloud. It smelled like fresh rain, and it was wet with it too, the drizzle that was pat pat pattering on the roof. Daddy's beard was like tiny spikes brushing against my cheek as he leaned down to give me a hug.

I went back to my drawing, humming a made up tune. Positive that I was going to grow up to be an Olympic figure skater, and gymnast and swimmer, owner of a ranch full of horses, author of twenty award-winning books, and the best veterinarian to ever walk the earth.  Never mind the only sports training I had were once a week classes at the little gym. Never mind I’ve never owned a pet, and the stories I wrote were paragraph-long strings of typos.
       

I was in my own little world full of picture books, glitter glue and markers. In my own little world where Santa Claus was real, babies came from the stork, and little people lived inside of the TV and radio.

Still believing.