Home at the dollhouse by Fatima Mendoza — CENTRAL AMERICAN VOICES

Writer: Fatima Mendoza

Editor: Jocelyn Monroy-Saavedra

Illustrator: Eri Tenorio

Much of my childhood was spent underneath a kitchen table playing casita or house. I imagined the fuzzy blanket I draped over the kitchen table to be the front door and walls. I adorned the house’s interior with pillows, and invited my Barbie dolls out to play. My house is blindingly white, two stories tall, with a white picket fence and sprawling lawn. A golden retriever included, of course. The rich kids always have one. A picture perfect house. I think long and hard about the house. What’s it missing? It feels strange without the noise. Without the smells. Without the people. Without the life.

Like the stale cigarette butts wafting in the air was a sign the group of disgruntled Latino men had dispersed for lunch. Nearby, the metallic tang of quarters meant neighborhood moms were washing away weeks worth of laundry at the laundromat. Their children would tug on their shirts and ask for leftover change to buy toy capsules. The sticky-sweet smell of fruit, my favorite smell, meant the local fruit vendor had arrived. Faces also made my home.

The mini market cashier shaking his head disapprovingly at the cigarette butts littered on the floor. The women at the laundromat guarding a stranger’s coin purse while pursuing their lips at the latest gossip. The fruit vendor is chopping my family’s order of watermelon, mango, jícama, and cantaloupe as he pours over the latest soccer match with my dad. But where is my house in all of this? Maybe that's the difference between a house and home. I think of home as a feeling of comfort that follows you. Maybe less like a two story house and more of a tree with roots that can stretch for miles on end. And like any other form of life, our roots need to be nurtured to keep our foundations upright. Home for me will always be the constant chatter, chaos, and love.

There’s a knock on my door. Sighing, I lift my blanket to find mamí at my doorstep. It 's dinner time. Time to put the dollhouse away.