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57 Birthday Portrait Every time I look into my eyes hanging on the wall of my mother’s living room I relive that morning: her dressing me in my Mickey Mouse shirt still warm from her iron, my white leather shoes— the good ones—like two little moons on my feet, my father’s black comb in her hand fussing with my cowlicks, dabbing my hair with Agua de Violetas, parting it over and over until perfect. I recall the long drive to the big Sears, the tall racks of dresses and trousers I couldn’t see over as I followed her through the store to some strange lady who picked me up, plopped me down before a frightful man in a red top hat, a mean puppet in his hand, ordering me: look at the camera, the birdie—smile, smile, and then my mother: smile, mi’jo, smile, then the crowd: smile—come on—smile. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. I stared coldly through everyone into a world far away from the scent of violets, my perfect hair, the Mickey Mouse smiling on my shirt. Was I scared? Did I know something I shouldn’t have? That I can’t remember, still don’t know what to answer myself 58 every time I look into my eyes, hanging in my mother’s living room asking me: Why have you been sad all your life? ...

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