The hill coming up seemed like an endless road. Gum-spotted concrete rose up like a stairway to familiarity – the discomfortable comfort in poverty. The sun was too warm for the jumper against my bare legs, the polyester along my collarbone. My mother called me a tropical baby, born with an overheated body meant for hot weather – but I disagreed. My sister grabbed my hand with a parental-like grip as the shops blurred together, the bell of the icee lady ringing in my ears as she towed her cart around the streets. 

“One dollar, one dollar! Coco, cherry, mango!” 

She guided me towards the woman, reaching for her wallet to pull out two bills. Handing me the “rainbow” colored treat, I licked and licked, desperate for relief from the approaching summer. My sister’s tongue was red with her own. 

“Can we go to the store?” I asked. 

“For what?” She gazed down at me. I knew she felt the same, but she wouldn’t admit to being hungry like a kid would. 

“A snack.” 

She gave me a look. No. I knew. It was okay. I had something already, right?

Marching my mary janes past the bakery, my favorite smell wafted through the air, sweet and cozy. I longed to eat just one piece of bread – but it was out of reach, out of budget. General Tso’s chicken and slices of pepperoni and cheese mingled with the scent, becoming a food symphony that taunted my nostrils. Melancholy, I slurped up the remaining sugar water from my cup as she tugged my arm up the hill, home to an empty fridge, faucet dripping into my glass as I awaited dinner.

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