This is a vignette that I wrote for English class when we were studying The House on Mango Street. Enjoy!
Daddy is crying. Sparkly tears like glass. But splat not shatter as they fall. Tears on hands, sliding down, dropping onto his lap. Watermarks on brown pants. Tears that fall onto my cheeks when he kisses me on the forehead. Now I am crying his tears. What’s wrong? But he can’t say. And the television. Usually off, black, empty like a deserted parking lot. On now like in bad, cheesy, cigar-smell restaurants. Everyone crying. Flames and smoke and everyone sobbing. Until mommy sees me looking and presses OFF and the TV snaps to black.
Daddy twisting his hands like he is wringing water from a washcloth. Mommy tells me Be extra-nice to Carly. Carly’s daddy left when the big buildings fell over. Carly with flower-patterned leggings. Carly with short hair. Carly who could be a boy or a girl, but I can’t tell. Carly with lots of grown up brothers and sisters.
Carly has no daddy. And my daddy is crying. My daddy is crying but Carly has no daddy. Her tears are not her daddy’s drip-dropping onto her cheeks but her own. Carly with the flower patterned leggings. Carly with no daddy.
