Julia Alvarez

And so it was Ciudad Trujillo.

Trujillo was the dictator.

And I didn't know this at the time this event was going on, but that's the backdrop, a kind of dangerous moment.

And my family had a very tenuous position, to say the least.

But I didn't know any of this.

Mommy at her vanity.

I watched as she tried on faces before an evening out.

A charity ball, a fiesta de cumpleaños, a command reception in the dictator's honor.

Dabbing, brushing, preparing her company face to put on display.

The darkened brows, the red mouth drawn on her mouth.

the familiar beloved face already slipping away to belong to the world, turning this way and that in the three-paneled vanity mirror, in which I could also see my face cupped in my hands, studying her.

Touching, retouching, never satisfied, trying to find a face to mask the faces that couldn't be shown.

Faces I knew by heart, gauging her moods, the daily weather of her expressions, like a bankrupt farmer watching the rain clouds spank.

Faces she brushed over, colored and covered up.

The face of terror at the news of a cousin shot and uncle's body found in a wrecked car.

The punishment face, enraged at the will I had, locking me up in the closet until I sobbed, promising to be good if she let me out.

The nostril-flaring face of a swallowed laugh over a joke she couldn't share with us.

Or the playful face of a girl reaching to hold my hand, skip rope, climb trees, whispering tales of what would become of us.

or the private face, turned inward, the curtains drawn.

I belonged to myself alone.