The majority of the next two weeks after going to Papa's grave was spent on the mountain. I would leave around the house two in the afternoon after work at the shop {a job I did not need but kept me busy} and come back at six in the morning, go to work, rinse and repeat.

She was there of course, although she was surprised the first time she walked up and saw me laying there. She usually arrived way before me.

I was glad that she didn't ask any questions, because I didn't want to talk about anything {how my mother was too far gone for what people perceive as help, how my youngest sister had started talking to thin air and calling it my father, how my immediate younger brother looked worse and worse each day, but became 'happier and happier' for the sake of his younger one's, how the sanity of my family was almost nonexistent.}

Instead, she talked. She talked about her childhood, how she never had an identity among her peers {to black to be latina, her accent to thick to be black, either way a disappointment to all.} She talked about her so-called best friend and how he hated her so much that he had given her those chocolates to state his opinion on her still being alive.

She said he stayed with her out of pity and she didn't argue because his presence was the only thing that reminded her that she wasn't invisible sometimes.

{'she should have taken an extra bottle' he said to his friends when she called to tell him about the sleeping pills incident.}

"Why do you like this song so much?" I asked, after the same song played on repeat for the 11th time.

"I dunno. It's just a good song. Nothing special. I don't have any kind of connection to it. It didn't save my life or something. I just like it. That's all."

I could tell by the way she got so defensive with her words all of a sudden is that she didn't want to have any kind of label, even if it was just to be called a fan of someone. She had had enough labels all her life to go round. {illegal immigrant, black peasant, w*tback, negro child, bastard, pity project, mistake}

I dropped the subject afterwards and let her continue talking. She told me she didn't know what had triggered her panic attack. {just the thought of mere existence in this fucked up world} She told me that she likes art and had left traces of her love for it all over the whole country. From simple graffiti on walls to Picasso imitations on napkins at roadside diners.

She explained to me why art was so priceless. It all held meaning. A patron of an art museum might just see a sea of cyans, teals and turquoises. The artist, however, sees the ocean that surrounded him when he was lost a sea for days, with a limited food supply and an even scarcer water supply with nothing but the man eating fish that circled his boat as company.

She talked on and on and I sat watching her until day broke and she lay snoring on her backpack. Then I would trudge back home, taking my sweet time to enjoy the sweet scent of the morning dew and the cool breeze that blew across my face. The sun would bring with it an array of different hues of yellow, orange, red and even purple, one of the many things that attracted tourists to my small island country.

I would go past many people trudging out of their houses to open up shop and call out greetings to those awake enough to acknowledge my presence.

Finally, I would arrive at my house and all sense of peace would leave. Alana would be up, sitting on the porch stairs and engaging in a discussion with the air. She would wave at me excitedly {'Ven a saludar a papá!' she would call excitedly and my heart broke would break a little more each time.}

I would ruffle her hair and tell her that I have things to do to avoid having to play pretend. Then I would go into the kitchen and make breakfast for everybody, packaging some for Carlos, then go freshen up and head to the shop. Sleep was not on my schedule so I definitely didn't have a functional sleep schedule. I would wake up Carlos, who had taken to falling asleep in the shop and hand him some food before setting up shop. People would pass by and call out greetings and I would respond. Gabi would stop by at exactly eleven fifty nine to chat for a few minutes before heading back to the florist shop.

At 2 o' clock sharp, I would grab my things, slip a little extra money into the cash register while Carlos wasn't looking and make my way back to the mountains. I couldn't bear to face my mother. {We both knew how badly I would break}

I would go there and bask in the shade of the small cave, coming out only when the sky darkened and I heard footsteps coming up the trail.

But one day, those footste ps weren't hers.