Beautifully written!!
She had never wanted to grow up, but it happened without her permission.
She was tradition, roots, a tender, the oldest, she was calm. Life moved along and as society would dictate, she tried to keep up, be the person she was supposed to be. She ran faster, pushed up, made up, drank up and somewhere along the way she stumbled and gave up. She was weak, spoiled, ruined, she told herself as she hit the pavement.
Her hands got dirty, she scrapped her legs and when it was time to rise, when she could not sit on the ground anymore, she went home. The world is a tough place for the young at heart. The desert rain showered away her tears, the sun came up for a few days more and the pink returned to her cheeks.
She turned twenty-one on a summer day. She walked to the threshold once again expecting sun…
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A Muslim Latina 