Finally she looked up and said, Ana Rosa, there always has to be a first person to do something. She just kept turning her sheet over and over as she pounded away. We were pounding the clothes with rocks, and I gripped mine hard as I beat the dirt out of Papi’s overalls and my brother Guario’s waiter uniforms. I went to the librería and I saw a lot of books by President Balaguer. In fact, Papi told me that in the República Dominicana, only the President could write books. I knew it was a strange thing to want to do, because we sure didn’t know any writers around here. Mami was the only person who knew I wanted to write books when I grew up. If I wrote a new poem, I would recite it to her while we dipped our hands into the cool water. Mami had no time to pat her hair down, let alone share private thoughts the way we did on wash day.Īt the river’s edge, I’d tell Mami all the special things I had thought about during the week.
Then I’d have to keep on sharing Mami with everyone, especially Papi, who sat on the porch and never moved. WASH DAY WAS the day I’d get Mami all to myself. Mami and me smooth the wrinkled clothes right. To dry in the sun and flap in the breeze. Then WHACK! I smack the clothes on the rocks Where sun rays glimmer on a whisper of shade.Īnd Mami and me tie our hair up in braids. Our friends wave hola as we slippery-slide We juggle the soap, the scrub board, and clips.
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