Sunrise to Sunset

Sunrise to Sunset Part 1

I was sitting in the living room, when she came in. She had a strange look on her face. I knew at the age of seven, that there was something she wasn't telling me. At this point, we were no longer living at Grandmother Irma's. We had our own apartment on Fulton Street—not the most ideal neighborhood, but it was all we could afford at the time.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"Nothing's wrong," she replied. But there was a pause, before she continued, "There is something I need to talk to you about." Her medium wavy brown hair, gently brushed the sides of her face.

She was holding some papers in her trembling hands. I didn't know what they were. I didn't ask. She smiled at me; her eyebrows wrinkling in consternation, perhaps.

"You know, how you always said you wanted an older brother or sister?"

I looked at her, but before I was able to nod my head, she answered for me.

"Well, you do...and she's coming tomorrow night!" The look of worry melted into a huge smile; her upturned lips startled me for a moment, but then I returned her smile.

I was not expecting this. She never mentioned that I had a sister. How could this be?

I didn't know what to say. She looked away from my face and stared at her hands as she clutched really tight to the white papers, almost as if she needed something to hold onto.

After my initial shock, I became anxious to know what my sister was like. I had a sister!

I wanted to ask her so many things. What was life like in Costa Rica? Who was she with? Did she have any friends? I wanted to share my dolls with her. I was excited and anxious. I couldn't wait. That night, I couldn't sleep.

I remember meeting her for the first time. I wore my favorite dress, an orange-checkered frilled skirt with a faux buttoned top, and black Mary Jane shoes. I was excited—maybe, I wouldn't feel so alone anymore.

We moved into this apartment only a few months after my uncle's funeral. After he was gone, my mother's sisters treated her worse; whispering obscenities behind her back. They called her a slut because she wasn't married. My mom saved just enough money to move. Maybe she didn't want to bring my sister to the United States under the conditions we were in. She caught one of her sisters red-handed stealing some of the hard earned money she kept under the mattress she made from working at a deli in the city all day. She told grandmother about it, but Granny Irma never liked taking sides—at least that's what she said at the time. A week later, we moved out.

While my mom was at work, a nice Puerto Rican lady named Annie, who lived on the second floor, used to babysit me. Even though, there were rats as big as cats, I suppose it could have been worse.

I was in the living room watching TV when my mother walked through the door. There she was.

I remember that blank look on her face. She was slightly taller than me. Her chestnut colored straight hair was shorter than my medium length wavy locks. She was also wearing a dress which was a dull dark shade of brown. It made me think of playing in dirt on a cool autumn eve. But what I remembered the most were her large dark eyes; they pierced right through me like daggers. She appeared shy and distant; mainly sitting by herself. I didn't think to ask at that moment, how it must have felt to be without a mom. In retrospect, maybe she thought I didn't care.

She didn't say much to me, when I showed her my dolls with their perfectly combed golden hair. I asked her if she wanted to play (in Spanish). She just shook her head. As it turned out, she did speak English. My grandmother on my dad's side of the family made sure of it by hiring a tutor, knowing that she would need to speak the language one day—she was right.