Hace frio, hace mucho frio.

I find warmth in my mother’s arms. She holds me tight. Her creation, I am. She birthed me on her 24th year, brought me into this world to show me life. We held hands together and she would share her dreams with me, of owning a house one day, of utopian freedom with our own backyard. More than anything, she showed that she had something to prove and lugged us around on her work days. 

Her face lit up at our parent-teacher conference. She would meet the person who was charged with educating me, one who would introduce new concepts, ideas, that I was quick to devour. My mom was proud of what I could do with my mind. 

Mom walked us down groceries aisles, where we loaded up our carts with gogurts, chips ahoy, ramen noodles and soda cans. She carried the load for us, helped us stay together, even when everything threatened to break us apart.

On her hand she has a small black dot. My mom held my hand a lot, and she showed me closeness. She was tough sometimes, and she wanted to make me stronger. When she was fed up with my messes, she would launch my shoes to my door. She made a statement that way. 

Mom loved to play her music loud when she cleaned, but I didn’t like dancing with her. Although my sister did. They danced in the living room, la sala, and they never tired. She could dance all day, they both could. 

Another thing mom loved, dulce de leche cortada. This was her favorite dessert. She would have a spoonful, then give me a spoonful, then my sister, and then her again.

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