The living room is my favorite room in the house. I love seeing the teal walls I painted every time that I come in, left unfinished by the ceiling where I couldn't reach. A perfect color to contrast the wall-length bamboo roller blinds covering the wide front window that is facing the street. Mental note, finish painting this weekend. The living room has hippy beach house vibes. Pothos plants trail down from the ceiling on macramé holders. An espresso stained wooden bookshelf leans on the opposite wall of the living room, wall to wall length, full, spitting out books that didn’t find a spot to sit in. My professor told me she bought it from a man here in Edinburg that makes furniture from reclaimed wood.
I open the door. It has a diamond shape glass cutout to look out from and most of the white paint has chipped off. Some sun enters to warm the piece of floor I stand on as I look outside. I love the porch, too. It’s my second favorite place in this house. There are dozens of terracotta pots lining the edges of the porch. Small burnt orange pots with nopalitos, some large painted ones that look like she bought them across the border housing different types of ferns, herbs, magueyes. My favorite plant is a zacate de limón standing tall right by the door. When the wind blows, its scent reminds me of the té that my Abuelita Panchita used to make me from her own yard. Buelita grew all kinds of trees and plants. Every time I visited her in Matamoros, I enjoyed fresh duraznos, plátanos, aguacates, guayabas, limónes, chiles del monte, fresh té de manzanilla and té de zacate de limón con lechita. I love to daydream out here. Sweaty summer days that I wish lasted longer. Leaves and branches spilling into each other’s pots, draping down the steps. Later when the sun sets, I’ll hose off the thirsty plants and cut the grass with my professor’s push lawn mower.
A gentle breeze whips a few tresses of my black hair as I sip from my mug. I have to start on my assignment. I walk back inside, leaving the door open. It’s fresh right now, but by noon it will rise past the hundreds again and then it will feel hotter in the house than outside.
My cat is sleeping on the large wooden trunk. I walk past him silently and sit on the floor, crossing my legs under me. Oliver wakes. He arches into child’s pose, his blue eyes on me. After a long yawn, his white legs walk over to me and he drops his weight in the open space between my thighs. I stroke his back a little and open the laptop on the rattan stool next to me. Everything is quiet. I begin to write.
