If Allen Ginsberg were here, he would say that our souls are like sunflowers shining in bright the sun.
That we are all created equal.
Books assure us that both segregation and prejudice have been forgotten for decades; but even so, why do people...
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When I came home from school, I found Abuelo planting radiant sunflowers near our porch. He wore a dark green shirt, khaki pants, and leather brown boots.
White garden gloves protect his sturdy hands as Abuelo smoothes the moist dirt with his fingertips. Underneath his straw hat is strands of greyish-white hair.
Floating above me is a violent, bitter fog that had succumbed to a silent death; warmth and comfort seeped into the sun's rays as the heat burned my bare skin.
"Good afternoon, Leah," he greets warmly.
I grin widely as I stoop down to kiss his wrinkled forehead.
"How are you doing?" I ask Abuelo curiously.
Normally, he would be at the bar, playing poker with his war buddies.
"Just planting these beauties for your grandmother." Abuelo simply gazes at the warm, yellow sunflowers then adds: "They remind me so much like your mother."
Sunflowers were Mom's favorites; she would have loved planting them if she wasn't so allergic to them. As for Dad, I think he cherishes tulips because I think they survive in the winter.
If I could describe Mom in three words, it would be: warm, bubbly, and energetic. Whenever she wakes up, Mom would make blueberry pancakes, bombard me with hugs and kisses, then get herself dressed for work.
Hell, if she were alive, my mom would complain that I take after Dad. Believe it or not, I kind of agree with her: the three words I describe my father is quiet, strange, and cynical.
He never goes anywhere without a cigarette or a book. Mom wanted me to be proud of my Hispanic heritage, but I don't know how to be express my culture.
I grew up in a Suburban environment; I had a Canadian father, and I went to a mostly white public school, and I hang out with boys.
My Spanish sucks.
Even though I took lessons in sixth grade, I am afraid of walking up to someone not knowing what he or she is saying.
But thanks to my loving grandparents, I have explored my Colombian roots through food and music.
Speaking of food, Abuelo pulls himself off the ground, he brushes the dirt off his pants, then gestures me to come inside the house.
"Your grandmother is making your favorite empanadas with cream cheese," he grinned.
I attempt to smile back, but my stomach wasn't in the mood for empanadas.
"Okay," I nod slowly. "That sounds nice."
Abuelo frowns at my lack of emotion so he asks how my day was at school.
