s and darting eyes. She wrote about the world on my carry-around
chalkboard. She also made pictures with her blackened hands. Hand-talkface-talkand chalk-talk were
the languages I grew up withsoundless and strong.
As she wound her hair tight against her skullI played with her box of treasures. I took out a pretty
combivory with a rooster carved at each end. Precious Auntie was born a Rooster. "You wear this I
demanded
holding it up. Pretty." I was still young enough to believe that beauty came from thingsand I
wanted Mother to favor her more. But Precious Auntie shook her head. She pulled off her scarf and
pointed to her face and bunched her brows.What use do I have for prettiness ? she was saying.
Her bangs fell to her eyebrows like mine. The rest of her hair was bound into a knot and stabbed
together with a silver prong. She had a sweet-peach foreheadwide-set eyesfull cheeks tapering to a
small plump nose. That was the top of her face. Then there was the bottom.
She wiggled her blackened fingertips like hungry flames.See what the fire did.
I didn't think she was uglynot in the way others in our family did. "Ai-yaseeing hereven a demon
would leap out of his skin I once heard Mother remark. When I was small
I liked ,
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