la sala

Diary of the Reminicisent Vitrina

I remember when they moved me into that little apartment on 1000 Loring Ave. She filled me up with photo books, CDs, and framed family pictures. Right in the middle, she smacked down a large, dusty bubble TV that I was not very fond of. I wish I were able to tell you all the memories I have of you and our family before I ended up in pieces in this landfill.

Before you could talk, I was the only thing that could calm you down. I put my muñequitos on, and you quieted right up. I watched you ignore abuela and take your pacifier out of the trash and gag at the taste of it, learning your lesson.

Remember when you fed your sister’s tadpole even though you were told not to touch it, and it died? That might’ve been the first time you experienced guilt.

Or when you would get home from school and watch Arthur, The Wendy Williams Show, Maury, and then the news, every day, in that order. I’m not sure how positively that affected your childhood development or your in-classroom behavior.

In the summer, you would forget about me, but when you turned 11, it seemed like you lost interest in the playground dramas. I remember you plugged the Wii into the already heavy TV and watched hours and hours of Pretty Little Liars, awaiting your doom of switching schools for middle school.

Even after you murdered your sister’s tadpole and became a couch potato, abuela would have a plato de un hombre-sized meal for you, three times a day.

If I could speak, I could have warned you of the adult iPad baby trajectory you followed today. I would have told you not to complain about your grandma feeding you rice and beans every day, because one day it’ll just be you, an empty fridge, an iPad, and Uber Eats.