Photo’s On The Wall

Rosa

Rosa’s hands trembled as she reached down for the blush. Her makeup routine was always simple, more or less inherited from her mother.

Her mother had always told her, “It’s important to put on your best face to the world.”

Rosa was the youngest of her three other sisters. As the last to exit her mother’s womb, she found it hard to detach herself from her mother’s hip, afraid to let go. So, her earliest days were spent studying her mother’s routines. Rosa would watch her apply makeup closely, taking note of her delicate application and blush on the highs of her cheekbones.

Her mother would turn from the mirror, rosy cheeks lifted in a smile.

When she turned 10, taller than all her sisters, Rosa was already too beautiful for her demeanour. Her sisters protested when her mother gifted her with her blush, much younger than they had been allowed makeup.

“She’ll lose it!”

“Or break it.”

“Her face is already red all the time!”

Rosa, usually quick to cry at her sisters’ most innocent jabs, tuned them out, eyes ablaze in admiration at the gift.

She did initially put on too much. Her sisters called her a clown, and seeing they had a point, she ran upstairs, tears casting streaks on her colourful cheeks.

Her mother found her a mess in the corner and brushed her hair behind her ears like always. Wiping her clean, she showed Rosa how to apply the makeup softly. She guided her to the mirror, hands upon her shoulders, whispering, “Bonita”.

Smiling, looking at her image next to her mother, Rosa’s mother returned the expression. “Your sisters are silly and jealous; don’t let them get to you.”

So Rosa continued to wear her blush and act younger than her age, chasing butterflies through the grass and tracking mud into the house. She ripped her most excellent dresses, played with the boys in the streets, and rudely placed her elbows upon the dinner table despite continual protestations.

At age 15, enough time had passed that her eldest sister, Angela, needed to talk with her. “You can’t keep acting like this, Rosa. You will be a woman soon,” she scolded, patching her knee from another scrape.

“I know I can’t wait.” Rosa smiled, unaware of what the world did to women.

Her sister asked, shaking her head. “A woman cannot play soccer with the Chamorro brothers and track mud into the house.”

“They can’t rip their prettiest dresses either,” her sister Reyna expressed from the corner she was holed in, not looking up from her book.

Rosa, agitated, started: “Mama says -”

“Mama favors you because you’re sensitive; when will you learn,” Angela firmly proclaimed.

“I’m not sensitive.”

“I’m not sensitive,” Reyna mocked from the corner, smirking.

With tears already welling in her eyes, Rosa angrily turned her face to the ground, not wanting to let them escape and prove her sister right.

Angela saw and, as a natural older sister, felt sad for her youngest.

“Mira, let me fix your hair.”

Rosa had long, dark brown locks as wild as her spirit. Due to neglect, her natural coils tangled her hair almost every night, so she woke to look like a “lion,” as her sisters at the breakfast table would often proclaim.

Rosa barely cared, though. She merely bunched it up into a long braid—a style long servicing her—before skipping into the outside world, where the ladybugs would play with her and not care for the state of her hair.

“My hair is fine!” protested Rosa, defensively grasping at her braid by her shoulder.

“You would have to cut that mess off to get it to behave!” said Reyna.

Angela softly removed Rosa’s firm grip from the braid and gently began undoing the tangles so the curls fell down her chest. Angela thought it was beautiful hair, a little frustrated that the least deserving of such natural curls was the most careless. She had to put her hair into rollers every night.

Still, a maternal pang begged her to recover the mess—she knew her spirited younger sister was beautiful inside and out. Still, her disposition would never suit her, especially regarding the detailed maintenance required by such expressive hair in this grown-out state.

“A haircut is not a bad idea,” Angela suggested, attempting to wrangle the curls through her wooden comb.

Wincing from the pain of the process—Rosa shrieked, “No!”

But she thought of her mother—her short hairstyle—and, remembering the sight of her alongside her mother, warmed up to the suggestion.

Angela grew excited at the makeover. She was in charge of cutting her hair and her sisters’, but Rosa was usually so impatient, always conveniently absent when Angela wrangled the sisters for their bi-monthly haircuts. To have such a hopeless subject in her mercy would be a challenge—one she warmed up to.

So, the project began. Angela, quite the soldier, retained an admirable diligence in the ensuing process, comparable to the taming of a wild beast. She washed Rosa’s hair, wasting a bottle of her favorite conditioner. To her horror, she learned Rosa had usually skipped this second product, thinking it did nothing.

Rosa retained an honorable level of poise, to the shock of her sister. While every instinct complained to get up and go back outside—that the water was too cold, the discomfort too great—she silently contained herself in place. Partially, she wanted to prove Reyna wrong, that she was well-behaved. But frankly, she was excited to be doted on and made pretty.

When the scissors came out, it grew more challenging for her to maintain her disposition. She was not vain, or so she had often thought, but as her moist locks fell to the ground in a mass of discarded clumps, her eyes welled, as if her sister were cutting off pieces of her flesh.

“Tranquila,” cooed Angela, and Rosa sucked in her tears, trusting the process.

The job took an entire day, and both sisters were exhausted. Looking up at her sister’s focused gel application and final touches of hairspray, Rosa saw a smile on her sister’s face. Angela, transfixed in her task, finally took in the image before her. She felt a pang of pride taking in the beautiful girl—almost a woman—she had just built before her. It mixed with a melancholy recognition that her youngest, reckless sister was now aged.

When Rosa turned to the mirror, unable to withhold her impatience any longer, she froze. The image before her was breathtaking. She recognized it, for it was the picture of her mother that hung in the living room—the one where she stood next to her father on their wedding day, the father she had never met. It took a second to recognize that it was not her mother miraculously aged down gazing back at her, but herself. Her dark brown hair was now cropped in a neat bob above her chin, curled, not coiled.

“Now, when you play, your hair won’t get so tangled,” said Angela, smiling.

Yet for the first time, Rosa did not want to play. She saw a woman before her and knew women went dancing.

Rosa then wore her prettiest (least mangled) dress, skipping down to the dining room where her family would be sitting for dinner. Confidence trumped all nerves as they looked up in awe. Even Reyna smiled at her little sister.

But it was her mother whose reaction Rosa wanted to see most. In meeting her ever-embracing gaze, she saw pride fill them. Rosita, her youngest, had never met her father yet seemed to be made up of all of his wildness, and she had held her close through the years as a way to hold on to him. But now, she was mature.

It meant her job was done. Her girls, all grown up, would soon leave the house in marriage, to have their little girls.

“I think you are old enough to go with your sisters to the dance.”

Her mother’s words gently implied that it was time for Rosa to give up all her playing.

In a week, a dance was to occur. The usual party following the Saturday evening mass was the week’s highlight for the sisters, who were all made with the spirit of song flowing through their parents. They sang and danced—they stayed the whole night through—and everyone knew of the Sandina sisters, hoping to get a chance to have just one dance with them.

Rosa, who usually went home with her mother, was to make her first appearance. She was excited, typically envious of the stories told the following day at breakfast, feigning disinterest to suppress her jealous tears. But she was nervous. She practiced dancing the whole week ahead, saying no to her soccer compatriots because she was now mature and had no time for the foolish activities she once partook in.

Unfortunately, even the little 2-inch heels her mother picked out for her felt too tall to move in. She wound up with as many scrapes on her knees as she did when playing soccer. And she was at least good at soccer. Dancing? She could not get under wraps. There were so many rules to remember—following the footwork. Music moved Rosa, and she was used to being free in her movements, following only the rhythm that whispered to her heart.

“Oh, but that just will not do,” her sisters exclaimed. “No, that is not the kind of dancing to be done in public.”

She was confused about why she was told not to sing along or why she had to be so proper.

When the evening approached, she fretted tirelessly in front of the mirror. As it drew closer, and her makeup and gown were fitted in place, she had to be fervent in repressing the tears that threatened to ruin her makeup.

During the service, Rosa, who usually sang, was quietly transfixed while retracing all the rules. Don’t touch your hair, even though it’s itchy—the hairspray will break. Don’t step on your partner’s toes. Gracefully accept and follow your partner to the dance floor when asked to dance. Oh, to be back outside, where she played freely, seemed right in the world.

The clumsy and unrestrained Rosa was suspiciously silent as she followed her sisters to the hall for the dance. The hum from the music inside mirrored the fast-paced beating of her heart, the only reason she did not resolve to cast away the painful shoes and run into the wild, never to return.

The room was more extravagant than she could have imagined. Complete with the people she knew from around town, all made so pretty, shining under the warm evening light that trickled through the giant windows. The hardwood floor was decorated with fast-moving feet—the band was terrific. Lost in the clouds again, she shook herself back down to reality, where her anxiety returned in the realization her sisters were all miraculously gone, and so, she was alone.

So, Rosa watched.

She found a quiet spot along the sidelines where she could safely observe.

She was content here, safe from the possibility of that dreaded routine her sisters assured her was “proper dancing.” She could witness her sisters in their full glory, laughing and dancing about the room.

But her eyes kept wandering to a figure she did not know. His neatly slicked hair, sharp cheekbones, and stiff brow. He stood amongst the respected government people and moved with preciseness and certainty. He failed to smile alongside his friends and kept his back similarly planted upon an opposing wall to hers.

To her horror, her stares met his. Eyes locked, and his sober face flushed red. While her heart raced in a way she had never experienced, she looked to the safety of the ground beneath her, calming her breathing once more.

To Rosa’s surprise, she looked up to find the serious man now in front of her, with a hint of a smile threatening to overcome his face. His proximity, his smell of cologne, painted her face to the bright red of that first time she put on blush and was told she looked like a clown.

“Hello, miss,”

He said confidently, but Rosa failed to speak.

“What is your name?” he continued.

Realizing an answer was expected, she squeaked out, “Rosa,” and, after a second, replied warmly, “What is yours?” proud to have completed the interaction in a way her sisters would approve.

To her dismay, the conversation continued.

“I am Armando Urroz.” Then, extending his hand to the shy, beautiful girl across from him:

“Would you care to dance?”

Unfortunately, at the same time, Rosa became incredibly aware of the gathering saliva pooling in her mouth. Her throat began to tighten, and she could not figure out how to loosen it to allow her to breathe. Her palms were also quite sweaty, and she feared meeting his hand and having this man recoil in horror at her damp grasp.

In all this confusion, she saw his hand remained extended, and his silence must have meant he was awaiting an answer.

Now, truthfully, Rosa would have loved to say yes.

Something was intriguing about this orderly individual—who appeared to be her polar opposite. It must have been something in his dark eyes or his delicate way of speaking. Maybe it was his jawline as it clenched in anticipation.

Anyways, he was handsome.

So, in realizing all of this, Rosa replied:

“I can’t.”

Armando—or so he was called—looked for a moment, saddened. His hand fell back to his side, and he cleared his throat as he regained his voice.

“You can’t?” he asked.

“No, I can’t,”

“Why can’t you?” he pushed. Normally quite respectful, he felt motivated by her eyes, which seemed to say yes—her smile, despite the decline.

“I am becoming a nun,” Rosa stated, finding her excuse.

“But you are not a nun now?”

Rosa was growing redder by the second. She had declined for fear of him discovering her poor dancing. Yet, why did he remain now, questioning her—so against usual propriety?

“I have taken the oath.”

And then a sad,

“Ah.”

So he nodded his head, and he smiled, turning away.

Left in the dust of the interaction, Rosa felt anything but relief. His walking away tugged at her building guilt, and she felt a strange impulse to run after him, proclaiming, “Wait! No!”

But oh well, it would be too late.

So she went back to the corner, tried focusing on the music, and swayed her head side to side, mumbling the lyrics to fall back into the dream she usually resided in.

Armando, back amongst friends, fell into a similar state of unconsciousness. He was astute, proper, profound—but—he could not seem to think of anything other than the girl who denied him in the corner. She was soft in her disposition but carried a flame of passion in her eyes—a life he had not seen around himself since he was a boy. One light, he thought, he had extinguished in himself.

And so he returned to her, an act of boldness he could barely believe himself capable of. This time, he was not ready to accept a no—a desire which increased after witnessing the girl dancing in place and humming to herself with her eyes squeezed tightly shut.

“Excuse me—Rosa?”

Her eyes opened, widening at his return. He asserted:

“I’m sorry, but if you are becoming a nun, I will vow to become a priest.”

She froze, possessed by the integrity of his words. But she could not restrain the smile that overtook her face before she could think.

“Anything, so long as you agree to one dance.”

—--------

Rosa’s hands now shake when she applies makeup.

She barely remembers how her mother looked—the gown she wore that night of the dance so many years ago. In between, Rosa got married, survived a civil war, and raised her six kids in Canada—alongside the severe man she denied so many years ago.

His soberness melted through the years under her soft touch—he now smiled at her from the bed, with a look of love, although not the same as from first sight, but of a life spent together. She had never danced with anyone else. There were no more dances to be had—only the rhythm of a long, shared existence.

Her hair was still cropped, she wore her blush in the same way—and she carried her mother in all of it—passing love to her children, which they would have once she was gone.