Joan was cool; she was just young enough to still relate, still have enough spark to indulge in childness, but responsible and rock solid. Her car, the tank she called it and old boat of a buick that swung wide when she spun the pizza sized steering wheel.
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Her name was Adrianna but we called her Ahh-dee, That was her name and she helped raise me. She had dark skin, and she spoke only español. I’d be in restaurants, years later— before it shriveled from disuse— Translating to my parents the conversations behind us. But she is a mystery. My Dad tells me that everything she touched was made neater, more beautiful. She said she had to leave, that I was growing quickly and needed more Needed English
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