She studied her face: brown angular features, high cheekbones. Adriana concentrated, turning her gaze on her mouth and head: thick lips; short, curled hair.
She was twenty-four years old,
Adriana was only four years old, but she knew that her mother had killed her father. She knew because she had been there when it had happened.
Struggling to control her racing heart because she feared another breathing attack, Adriana conjured her mother’s image in her mind: brown complexion, willowy body, black straight hair that hung to her waist. As a young woman, she had migrated with her family from Campeche in Mexico to Los Angeles. In that city she met Adriana’s father, loved him, ...
Then the image of Adriana’s father rose from the rubble of her little-girl memory. She saw the skin of his African ancestors, the muscular body inherited from a mix of races, the nappy hair of his family.
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