Puerto Rico

When I was just a little girl, I asked my mother, "What will I be? Will I be pretty? Will I be rich?" Here’s what she said to me

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When I was a kid, maybe five or six, we sailed from the Virgin Islands to Puerto Rico, two afterthoughts in a big blue sea. The crossing lasted four days, maybe five or six – a stretch of same same days with fish circling around your toothpaste spit, games of Go Fish, naps in the hammock, bedtime already.

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When I was just a child in school I asked my teacher, "What should I try? Should I paint pictures? Should I sing songs?" This was her wise reply

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Someone caught a kingfish. Someone caught a barracuda, its open eye staring back at you through the years. Early mornings, early nights, the sea casting a spell of endless days. A ceaseless present in an unceasing sea. And then it was over. Sound and movement, the perfect and its end. Time started again. We had arrived.

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When I grew up and fell in love I asked my sweetheart, "What lies ahead? Will we have rainbows day after day?" Guess what my lover said

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There I remember one image – a boat in the harbor, a flag falling over itself in the breeze. All I have from there is this postcard in my head, really just a collage of colors – some green, some yellow, a stroke of red, but mostly blue. I asked my mother where we were. She said this was Puerto Rico. We were here.

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Que sera, sera Whatever will be, will be The future's not ours to see Que sera, sera

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