What she didn't know she compensated with a smile. Those who approached her, the intrepid ones, decried the traditional ideology of elders, which instantly positioned them in the candidacy for favorites to-be. She congregated with mentalities that inspired rebellion. Together, they recounted stories, criticisms and untimely victories. She understood the discrepancy between age and experience.
My name is Elena Franco. When I was 6 or 7 years old, I wanted to be a meat butcher. My mother is a possessive woman. My father is a mystery. I go to school in the city and my classmates are neanderthals. What I prefer at the moment is to live unsupervised until tomorrow or the next day, if possible. My window is open, and I can hear poor attempts to modify noise into music. Close my window, I would like to be left alone.
I hated my aunt, which meant the love for my mother increased each time ugly parts of her personality emerged during revelatory moments. I never envied the world of adults. I only loved my mom. She was the justice of peace, my protector from evil, a conglomerate of pleasing qualities in one person.
It would be unfair to discredit her efforts at a decent hospitality. She's my only aunt, after all. But, truthfully speaking, I would have rather slept with the dog in the garage.
I left on my birthday because birthdays are permission for festive celebrations. But my vacation to the high plain horrified everyone. My aunt demanded family discretion over my mood swings, which I considered criminally manic. In retrospect, I internalized a lot of the grief I skipped from having to immediately experience. During the time I lived inside my aunt's precarious dungeon, I traveled incessantly.
