Tonight when Olivia cries out “No!” in her sleep, I gently wake her. “It’s only a bad dream, little sister.”

Why didn’t the nightmares start at Auntie Minerva’s house, where my auntie’s laws made life difficult?

I hold Olivia until she finishes crying. She buries her face in my chest. “I’m sorry, Isabel.”

Sorry for what? Sorry for waking me? Or sorry for hiding my clothes under the bed, not eating my mushy pancakes, or dipping my toothbrush in the toilet?

One good thing has come because of the nightmares—dry sheets. Before Olivia falls back to sleep, I take her to the bathroom, tuck her into bed, and walk softly to the kitchen for a glass of water. My father’s bedroom door is ajar and I learn why his bed was made this morning.

He’s asleep on the floor, his body curled in the exact same spot where my mother took her last breath.

Sleepy Days, Sleepless Night

Sister Agnes called my name several times in class before I answered her. At least that’s what Tonya tells me at lunch. “Your eyes are red, Isabel. Are you all right?”

“I’m sleepy,” I say.

At night, I try not to look at the clock because then I know how much time I have left before I must get ready for school. But the white numbers draw me to them like a magnet, and I spend most of the night watching the numbers flip into new ones. I wish I could go to sleep after Olivia’s nightmare and trip to the bathroom, but thoughts keep my mind racing. There’s so much to think about. Thank goodness I have my lists to keep it all straight.

Lost Birds

My mother told me that, years ago, Guam had many birds—beautiful birds with beautiful songs. But the brown tree snake took over the island, eating the bird eggs until one day there weren’t any birds left. An occasional sparrow may find its way here, but that’s about it.

“Only chickens crowing all hours of the day, crowing like broken alarm clocks,” Mom said, her eyes growing wet like someone crying over their dead dog. Since I didn’t remember the birds, I never understood her tears.

But now I long for the birds like she did. A hole inside me waits to be filled with their melodies. I toss and turn at night. I want to hear the birds’ songs and see them spread their wings. Then maybe I could fly away with them.

Golai HagunSune

Auntie Bernadette won’t quit nagging me about the golai hagun sune. Her words are like pebbles hitting my head. “You should let me show you how to make it for the fiesta. Then you’ll have some practice before your mother’s first anniversary rosary.”

I don’t tell Auntie that I already know how to make the golai hagun sune. I watched my mother make it for years, just as she watched her mother. I saw how she slowly rubbed the coconut meat against the grinder, squeezing it to capture every drop. So much work for so little milk. I followed her into the backyard as she picked the best taro leaves; only the flawless ones went into her dish.