Isla Valentina Kane

Twenty days until my sixth birthday

I shouldn’t be conscious. The adults believe I’m asleep though I’m not.

I’m positioned at the center of the restaurant barefoot, on the tiles dressed in the red gown the city handed me in the dream. It’s oversized the hem sweeps the floor like a blood-colored cape. It fits flawlessly when I’m inside the cathedral. Mommy, Daddy, Abuela, Tía Rosa, Tía Lila and Tío Marco are all napping on the sofas and the floor tangled ...