Fiction

I was six, or seven. It was a scalding Dominican summer day that began with a hurried packing of bare-essentials— underwear and shorts—as my aunt prepared me for a visit to my grandmother’s in the campo. It was basically out in the wilderness, some miles away from the city. Whilst I was inside, saying goodbye

I had a theory about white walls. White is a sterile color, unfeeling and void of emotion but not meaningless. The hospital walls were strategically colorless because memories don’t stick to something so bland. It is a mechanism to help ease the healing process, to try and alleviate the grief and mourning of the families