The House on Mango Street Read Free Page B

hundred-year-old home once periwinkle, but now painted a Mexican pink.
    Two years ago my office went up in my backyard, a building created from my Mexican memories. I am writing this today from this very office, Mexican marigold on the outside, morning-glory violet on the inside. Wind chimes ring from the terrace. Trains moan in the distance all the time, ours is a neighborhood of trains. The same San Antonio River tourists know from the Riverwalk wends its way behind my house to the Missions and beyond until it empties into the Gulf of Mexico. From my terrace you can see the river where it bends into an S.
    White cranes float across the sky like a scene painted on a lacquered screen. The river shares the land with ducks, raccoons, possums, skunks, buzzards, butterflies, hawks, turtles, snakes, owls, even though we’re walking distance to downtown. And within the confines of my own garden there are plenty of other creatures too—yappy dogs, kamikaze cats, one lovesick parrot with a crush on me.
    This is my house.
    Bliss.
    October 24th, 2007. You come down from Chicago for a visit, Mama. You don’t want to come. I make you come. You don’t like to leave your house anymore, your back hurts you say, but I insist. I built this office beside the river for you as much as for me, and I want you to see it.
    Once, years ago, you telephoned and said in an urgent voice, “When are you going to build your office? I just saw Isabel Allende on PBS and she has a HUGE desk and a BIG office.” You were upset because I was writing on the kitchen table again like in the old days.
    And now here we are, on the rooftop of a saffron building with a river view, a space all my own just to write.We climb up to the room I work in, above the library, and out to the balcony facing the river.
    You have to rest. There are industrial buildings on the opposite bank—abandoned granaries and silos—but they’re so rain-rusted and sun-bleached, they have their own charm, like public sculptures. When you’ve recovered your breath, we continue.
    I’m especially proud of the spiral staircase to the rooftop. I’d always dreamed of having one, just like the houses in Mexico. Even the word for them in Spanish is wonderful—
un caracol
—a snail. Our footsteps clang on each metal step, the dogs following so close we have to scold them.
    “Your office is bigger than in the pictures you sent,” you say delighted. I imagine you’re comparing it to Isabel Allende’s.
    “Where did you get the drapes in the library? I bet they cost a pretty penny. Too bad your brothers couldn’t upholster your chairs for you and save you some money. Boy, this place is niiiiice!” you say, your voice sliding up the scales like a river grackle.
    I plop yoga mats on the rooftop, and we sit cross-legged to watch the sun descend. We drink your favorite, Italian sparkling wine, to celebrate your arrival, to celebrate my office.
    The sky absorbs the night quickly-quickly, dissolving into the color of a plum. I lie on my back and watch clouds scurry past in a hurry to get home. Stars come out shyly, one by one. You lie down next to me and drape one leg over mine like when we sleep together at your home. We always sleep together when I’m there. At first because there isn’t any other bed. But later, after Papa dies, just because you want me near. It’s the only time you let yourself be affectionate.
    “What if we invite everybody down here for Christmas next year?” I ask, “What do you think?”
    “We’ll see,” you say lost in your own thoughts.
    The moon climbs the front yard mesquite tree, leaps over the terrace ledge and astonishes us. It’s a full moon, a huge nimbus like the prints of Yoshitoshi. From here on, I won’t be able to see a full moon again without thinking of you, this moment. But right now, I don’t know this.
    You close your eyes. You look like you’re sleeping. The plane ride must’ve tired you. “Good lucky you studied,” you say without