La India
A woman walked into my life when I was twelve. She was eighteen and beginning her college years. My grandmother, a very generous and nurturing woman, let her stay in the apartment above ours for nothing at all. Mind you, she didn’t know this woman. All she knew was that this college student had no money, no place to stay, and no family that she knew of. As I said before, my grandmother was a very generous and nurturing woman.
This woman’s name was Manzanita. Atleast, that is what she told us. Her name means “little apple.”
Living with us for four years had made her almost family. To my grandmother, she was the perfect young daughter, but to me, she was the only thing my heart asked for.
She was intelligent and beautiful. No one else around could compare to her. Her black hair was long and as straight as an Indian’s; her dark skin was the color of roasted almonds. Her eyes were what I loved the most: they were almond shaped and shone like stars. Their center was a dark, mossy green with flecks of yellow. Her body was just like the native’s of my home country: short and curvy.
My grandmother called her “La India.” Manzanita looked like the native Tainos of Puerto Rico. Ella era mi India. She was my Indian.
This woman’s name was Manzanita. Atleast, that is what she told us. Her name means “little apple.”
Living with us for four years had made her almost family. To my grandmother, she was the perfect young daughter, but to me, she was the only thing my heart asked for.
She was intelligent and beautiful. No one else around could compare to her. Her black hair was long and as straight as an Indian’s; her dark skin was the color of roasted almonds. Her eyes were what I loved the most: they were almond shaped and shone like stars. Their center was a dark, mossy green with flecks of yellow. Her body was just like the native’s of my home country: short and curvy.
My grandmother called her “La India.” Manzanita looked like the native Tainos of Puerto Rico. Ella era mi India. She was my Indian.