The 5th Rain

Dawning was a beautiful thing with a strong stem resembling the green sea. At the reversal was
hope, growing atop a bed of moss.
Every week on the 5th day rain would fall nurturing our seed. Humming a sweet soft melody,
summoning its colors.
Every 5th day, whenever the sprinkles started our roots would grow instantaneously. Wafting the
memories of summer rainfall.
Consistency, the lofty petals blooming with future, yet no direction.
Rising with a lively brown and blue dye seducing all admirers.
The loop presenting comfort.
During the 3rd cycle the rain was sparse and barely showered. Hungering, we waited. Fuming
with pride vowing to be magnificent.
In the next cycle the blessing returned. After completion however our plant remained untouched,
frozen in progress.
On routine the rain returned a 5th time. The hum reduced to whisper, the droplets sliding off
petals. Colors starting to fade. Desperation and distress creeping in.
At the 6th run. Silence introduced itself, filling in the soil. Submerging the glow within me.
Petals shrinking in remorse.
On the 7th cycle I stood by and watched the rain fall as hard as it ever did. Melancholy hovering.
Envy running through my dry roots. Wondering, when did I outgrow the rain?

The Mic
Flashbacks of how the lights glared at me as my muscles fought for air brush past me. Waves of
eyes and cheers disorienting me. Wait, how did I get here? I ponder for a moment before I’m
brought back. “Neidy.” My body awakens. My limbs tingle with anticipation.
“Do you need the mic?”
I nod my head vertically as I step forward, my fingers slowly embracing the cold mechanical
device.
I suddenly remembered how I got here.
3 weeks prior Rosalia, a classmate approached me with a proposal.
“Neidy let’s perform at the school multicultural festival this year!”
We are 6th graders. I have never done a performance before. I have no talent.
“No.”
“Aww, please why not? This is our last year at this school.” She insisted.
“I don’t have anything to show.”
That is only part of my excuse. Truth is I’m not fully confident in my English speaking skills
since I had just moved to Seattle a couple years ago.Who would want to see a performance from
a Spanish accent heavy immigrant kid anyway?
She smiles sinisterly.
“If I find you, say a poem, to read in front of everyone, would you do it?”
I stare at her.
I give her a small smile and nod my head.
Rosalia picked a short poem, thank God.
I spent weeks practicing and memorizing that poem in a language I was still mastering.
My first time on a platform like this, what if they don’t like me? Well it’s too late to back out
now. My presence was seen however my voice was unheard.
My voice and my body shake as I begin.
“Hi, my name is Neidy Avila Ramirez, I am a 6th grader and I will be reading a poem called
Central America in my heart, by Oscar Gonzales.
On this voyage into the deep communion of solitude
I’ve casually come to know.
the old and withered costumes of the sea.
I’ve walked carefully through the colors of copper.
when the dusk has already conjured the last prayer of the day.
Through seasonal doorways
I’ve called upon the twilight ghosts
arched in the corners of the narrow cobblestone streets.
I’ve let my lips evade the necessary verses
to find the ending phrase for the afternoon.
I’ve disarmed the elusive equity of the night
to conceive an intimate verse from its fortified mysteries.
I’ve cast aside the grieving songs of my twilight
as the sky envelops the enamored vestments of the night.
I’ve done and undone so many things in search of you.”
My heart is running from my chest. The air has left me again. I stare into the crowd upon my
final words.They deflect my doubts as rolling mountains of admiration and cheer follow, causing
me to cover my ears for protection.
I slowly place the mic back on its original stand then struggle making my way down the steps.
“You did great!” Rosalia cheers.
“Thanks!” I respond breathlessly.
“Would you do it again?”
That’s a good question. My knees were locked the entire performance, and i think I stopped
breathing a couple times, yet there was something so exhilarating and empowering to voice what
I had spent weeks practicing. Who knew they’d react like that.
Would I be crazy to chase that feeling again? I suppress the thought.
I inhaled deeply.
“Maybe.”

Where I am from

I am from juicy soft mangos and oil drenched plantains masking the air.
Where remnants of past civilizations and African slaves linger.
Where each ocean crash tells a secret.
I’m from cold, wet rain and mountains, where the sky roars of anger.
Where “opportunity” and reality clash.
I am from burden, responsibility and accountability.
With the lights burning my skin and the cameras forever rolling.
I am from bundles of hardworking souls.
“Fight for change or it’ll never happen”.
Witnessing the molding of future generations.
I am from twisted coily black thick hair.
The kind to entrap its invaders. Defensive.
I am from a place of knowledge, offering comfort and vast history.
A hideout from the world.