A boy walked up to a girl who was crying and asked, "Why are you crying?"
The girl looked at him and said, "Because nobody likes me....Do you like me?"
The boy shook his head and said, "No."
The girls then asked, "Will you whipe my tears away?"
The boy shook his head and once again said, "No."
The girl asked him once more, "You you make sure that I didn't feel any more pain?"
The boy shook his head and said once again, "No."
The girl, shooken and mad ran away from him. He ran after her and caught her arm. He pulled her to him and hugged her tightly.
"The reason I don't like you is because I already love you. The reason I won't whipe your tears is because I'd take them away from you and make sure you never shed them again. And the reason I wouldn't make sure you didn't feel anymore pain is because I'll gaurd you for the rest of my life. I'll give you my heart and my soul just to make you happy."
The girl started to cry once more, this time, the tears where happy tears.
~Poem~
Salvador Late Or Early
From Women Hollering Creek and Other Stories
By: Sandra Cisneros
Salvador with eyes the color of carerpillia, Savador of the crooked hair and crooked teeth, Salvador whose name the teacher cannot remember, is a boy who is no one's friend, runs along somewhere in that vague direction, where homes are the color of bad weather, lives behind raw wood doorway, shakes the sleepy brothers awake, ties their shoes, combs their hair with water, feeds them milk and corn flakes from a tin cup in the dim dark of the morning.
Salvador, late or early, sooner or later arrives with the string of younger brothers ready. Helps his mama, who is busy with the business of the baby. Tugs the arms of Cecilio, Arturito, makes them hurry, becayse today, like yesterday, Arturito has dropped the cigar box of crayons, has let go the hundered little fingers of red, green, yellow, blue, and nub of black sticks that tremble and spill over and beyond the asphalt puddles until the crossing-gaurd lady holds back the blur of traffic for Salvador to collect them again.
Salvador inside that wrinkled shirt, inside that throat that must clear itself and apologize each time it speaks, inside that forty-pound body of boy with its geography of scars, its history of hurt, limbs stuffed with feathers and rags, in what part of the eyes, in what part of the heard, in that cage of the chest where something throbs with both fists and knows only what Salvador knows, inside that body too small to contain the hundred ballons of happiness, the single gauitar of greif, is a boy like any other disappearing out the door, beside the schoolyard gate, where he has told his brothers they must wait. Collects the hand of Cecilio and Arturito, scuttles off dodging the many schoolyard colors, the elboys and wrists crisscrossing, the several shoes running. Grows small and smaller to the eyes, dissolves into the bright horizon, flutters in the air before disappearing like a memoty of kites.
The girl looked at him and said, "Because nobody likes me....Do you like me?"
The boy shook his head and said, "No."
The girls then asked, "Will you whipe my tears away?"
The boy shook his head and once again said, "No."
The girl asked him once more, "You you make sure that I didn't feel any more pain?"
The boy shook his head and said once again, "No."
The girl, shooken and mad ran away from him. He ran after her and caught her arm. He pulled her to him and hugged her tightly.
"The reason I don't like you is because I already love you. The reason I won't whipe your tears is because I'd take them away from you and make sure you never shed them again. And the reason I wouldn't make sure you didn't feel anymore pain is because I'll gaurd you for the rest of my life. I'll give you my heart and my soul just to make you happy."
The girl started to cry once more, this time, the tears where happy tears.
~Poem~
Salvador Late Or Early
From Women Hollering Creek and Other Stories
By: Sandra Cisneros
Salvador with eyes the color of carerpillia, Savador of the crooked hair and crooked teeth, Salvador whose name the teacher cannot remember, is a boy who is no one's friend, runs along somewhere in that vague direction, where homes are the color of bad weather, lives behind raw wood doorway, shakes the sleepy brothers awake, ties their shoes, combs their hair with water, feeds them milk and corn flakes from a tin cup in the dim dark of the morning.
Salvador, late or early, sooner or later arrives with the string of younger brothers ready. Helps his mama, who is busy with the business of the baby. Tugs the arms of Cecilio, Arturito, makes them hurry, becayse today, like yesterday, Arturito has dropped the cigar box of crayons, has let go the hundered little fingers of red, green, yellow, blue, and nub of black sticks that tremble and spill over and beyond the asphalt puddles until the crossing-gaurd lady holds back the blur of traffic for Salvador to collect them again.
Salvador inside that wrinkled shirt, inside that throat that must clear itself and apologize each time it speaks, inside that forty-pound body of boy with its geography of scars, its history of hurt, limbs stuffed with feathers and rags, in what part of the eyes, in what part of the heard, in that cage of the chest where something throbs with both fists and knows only what Salvador knows, inside that body too small to contain the hundred ballons of happiness, the single gauitar of greif, is a boy like any other disappearing out the door, beside the schoolyard gate, where he has told his brothers they must wait. Collects the hand of Cecilio and Arturito, scuttles off dodging the many schoolyard colors, the elboys and wrists crisscrossing, the several shoes running. Grows small and smaller to the eyes, dissolves into the bright horizon, flutters in the air before disappearing like a memoty of kites.
