PROLOGUE

Willow

MEMORIES ARE LIKE DREAMS. You don't know how they begin or where they end. There's only the middle.

Willow Díaz can't remember a beginning or an end, no matter how hard she tries. What she does remember is the middle. The memory has an old-film picture quality to it that's suffused with oversaturated yellow tones. The image is grainy, ancient, vintage. It flickers from one moment to the other, rewinding itself, pausing, and then moving forward.

Mar Chiquita stands before her, its half-moon opening defined by two limestone outcroppings. These limestones separate in the middle, where an entrance allows the Atlantic Ocean to rush in and give shape to the natural pool. The ocean rises and undulates to create menacing waves that soften once they crash against the outcroppings. They unfurl into white, frothy spumes as they spread through the natural pool and reach the shore.

The calm waters of Mar Chiquita lap against her tiny feet. Her tan toes wiggle their way out of wet sand, breaking through the water's surface to expose turquoise-colored nails and cause calm ripples. The sand disintegrates into mushy clumps that make eleven-year-old Willow think of the masa her Abuela uses to prepare pasteles for Christmas.

The sea-soaked hem of the summer dress her Abuela knitted for her the year before billows out in front of her, carrying with it the pungent smell of salt and sulfur. The upper part of her dress presses tightly against her prepubescent chest, filling the fabric that was once too loose on her frame.

You're becoming a woman, her Mami constantly says. Willow doesn't know what it means. All she knows is, her Mami considers her a woman every time her body changes.

The sea continues to reach for her, pulling closer to lick her scrawny, tan legs. Then it recedes, wet sand sticking to her legs. A mark is left behind on her skin. Like a memory, the sea has no beginning or end. It only has its immense middle. It reveals itself in different coastlines and morphs according to its surroundings.

The memory tastes like salt in her mouth, grains of sand stuck between her molars. The loud crunch from the grains as she bites down on them fills her head, a summer thunder in her ears. Another flavor pervades her mouth, intrusive as it awakens her senses. It's sweet and tart all at once, melting on her tongue yet icy against her teeth.

Her slender fingers encircle a vanilla cone which bears on top what was once a half-sphere but now is a shapeless blob of helado de parcha. It drips down her hand, creating sugar roads on her skin. Willow watches these juicy roads as if it's a competition, a game, just like she does with the rain droplets that skitter against her Papi's car windows. The first one to reach her arm wins. She licks them one by one, the mixture of the parcha, her saliva, and the wind leaving her skin sticky.

The briny wind whooshes all around her, blocking any sound there might be other than the sea's. Her long, thick, black curls float around her face as if they're airborne. The sweet and creamy aroma of her favorite coconut shampoo faintly permeates the air.

Her Papi's shadow looms over her, covering her back from the sun. It's a scribble on the sand, shapeless and imposing, so close to hers that it might as well be her own. His warmth envelops her, sunburnt arms wrapped around her small waist. Being in his arms has become her favorite corner in the world. She feels safe sitting on his lap. Her legs drape over his own, feet barely reaching his ankles. The black hairs that dot on his legs tickle her skin until tiny goosebumps appear from the friction.

His resonant laughter breaks the wind's spell, startling Willow. What's so funny? The up-and-down movement of his right leg, which begins on his ankle and ends on his knee, vibrates through her bones. What's so urgent? The tips of his long, slender fingers tap her right thigh with the same, rhythmic pattern- forefinger first, then middle finger. Repeat. Why is he so anxious?

His voice, his words, are cut off by the roar of the sea. Willow feels his lips moving against her ear, but no sound comes out. She's sure a conversation is taking place between them, but she can't remember what it's about. His callus fingertips brush against the soft skin of her temple as he tucks a curl behind her ear. His stale beer breath is hot on her neck, and humid when it reaches her ear as he whispers things long forgotten.

Silencio.

Willow revisits her favorite memory of her Papi like she always does while in the middle of creating a painting. This memory doesn't seem to have a before or an after, only the immediacy of now. It's odd to remember a past moment as if it's part of the present, considering its fleeting and metamorphic nature- how it lasts only seconds before becoming the past, and then, in the blink of an eye, turns into a future that seems so out of reach. It's human nature, though, to keep loved ones alive through the vividness of memory.

As if awoken from a daydream, Willow finds herself inside Guggenheim University's biggest art studio. Her eyes dart to the round clock that hangs from the wall in front of her. Only three hours left before the next student's turn.

What color is the memory?

The oversaturated yellow tones block out some colors, blue being its primary target. She only remembers it as shades that grow from light to dark. Were her little nails really painted turquoise or did memory filled in the gap with that color because it's her favorite?

What color is the memory?

She isn't sure. The memory begins to disintegrate, fading out some parts and contorting others into new things. She tries to grasp it as best as she can, but it's slipping into a dark corner of her mind, waiting to be invoked again. Before it hides, colors begin to break free from the coat of yellow tones as if the memory is a century-old, yellowing painting in the process of restoration.

She begins to squirt oil paints on the large palette that rests on the folding table next to her canvas. She dips a flat brush in white paint to use as background for glowing areas, such as the parts of the sea where the sun twinkles and glints. After immersing this brush in a cylinder container filled with turpentine, she picks up her palette knife to mix colors.

For the sea, Phthalo Green mixed with Ultramarine Blue to convey the Caribbean blue of her country's waters. Next to this combination, two blobs of yellow and Raw Umber oil paint resting side-by-side to each other, each mixed with Phthalo Green to create beautiful ranges of green.

For the waves, she plays with the different combinations that can result from the mixture of five types of blue: Cobalt Teal, Radiant Turquoise, Radiant Blue, Phthalo Blue, and Ultramarine Blue. Within these variations, she adds Yellow Ochre, Radiant Green, and Burnt Umber.

Her round brush glides against the canvas with ease. The vacant art studio is filled with the soothing sound from the hiss of brush fibers as they scrape against the nude canvas. There's a natural coordination in Willow's movements, a choreography between her tan arms, hands, and fingers. It's an innate expertise that makes her movements seem delicate and effortless. In this reverie, she becomes one with the canvas.

She alternates between paintbrushes, going from filbert to angled, and round to liner, and dips each one in different paint combinations. Their uniquely shaped bristles complete their purpose as they slowly bring the image to life. The first two brushes blend paint pigments, spreading them over large areas. She uses the last two for thin lines and detail work. The soothing sound from the fibers' hiss eventually turns into the oily squelch of paint, and then to the lulling hush of dry surfaces touching each other.

For the sky, Prussian Blue alone. Then, Prussian Blue mixed with Rouge Red. A little bit of Rouge Red alone. Rouge Red mixed with Cadmium Red. A little bit of Cadmium Red alone. Cadmium Red mixed with Cadmium Orange. Cadmium orange mixed with Cadmium Yellow. Her movements become more erratic, almost urgent, as if she's afraid she'll forget the right combination of colors.

A picture soon reflects itself to her.

A sunset? The fiery beauty of the sunset her Papi and her used to admire after long painting sessions. If there's a sunset, then how is she able to see her Papi's shadow on the sand? How is his shadow covering her back from the sun?

Is she remembering the colors correctly?

She isn't sure. Even now, it's foggy.

Then she remembers they used to stay in the beach every Sunday, waiting for the sun to meet the horizon and break into dusk.

The canvas stands before her. Its left side is vibrant with colors, while its right side is opaque and filled with charcoal lines that form a detailed sketch of her memory. There's something missing, though. A blank space, timeline, or moment she can neither remember nor identify. Something. It makes itself felt and imposes its existence, but it doesn't make itself visible.

Willow stares at her unfinished recreation of Mar Chiquita. The sight of it makes her cry, but she doesn't know why.
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🌼Word count: 1,596🌼

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-Abigail F. Boneta