la sirena

Your bedroom is upstairs on the corner. Mom says that the shag is burnt orange. There are two dressers in the bedroom. One is so tall that you had to stand on tiptoe to reach the handle of the highest drawer this past Christmas, to hide the Barbie your aunt gave you. Barbie is the wrong size to ride the plastic horses you collect. And she has blue eye shadow and B-R-E-A-S-T-S. She’s so embarrassing!

The bed is a grownup bed, almost as big as Mom and Dad’s. The bedspread has twisting vines and orange flowers on it. So it’s like you’re sleeping in an enchanted garden. You sleep while doing the middle splits sometimes to practice for the 1988 U.S.A. Olympic Gymnastics Team and also so that one big toe hangs off each side of the bed.

Sometimes it’s hard to sleep at night because you cough and cough and cough. When that happens, Mom reads you Madeleine L’Engle’s stories about mitochondria, which are tiny organs inside cells. They make energy and maybe music, because that’s what Grandpa’s organ does. Sometimes you think there might be tiny grandpas inside the cells playing the tiny organs. Mom has to read to you for a long time because you are too afraid to sleep. You have to keep breathing. That is your job.