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I don't know who decides who deserves to go bad。 There was no evil in her birth。 No wicked curse。 One day I believe she was swimming； and the next day she was sick。 It might have been the day that gray photograph was taken。 It might have been the day she was holding cousin Totchy and baby Frank。 It might have been the moment she pointed to the camera for the kids to look and they
wouldn't。
Maybe the sky didn't look the day she fell down。 Maybe God was busy。 It could be true she didn't dive right one day and hurt her spine。 Or maybe the story that she fell very hard from a high step stool； like Totchy said； is true。
But I think diseases have no eyes。 They pick with a dizzy finger anyone； just anyone。 Like my aunt who happened to be walking down the street one day in her Joan Crawford dress； in her funny felt hat with the black feather； cousin Totchy in one hand； baby Frank in the other。
Sometimes you get used to the sick and sometimes the sickness； if it is there too long； gets to seem normal。 This is how it was with her； and maybe this is why we chose her。
It was a game； that's all。 It was the game we played every afternoon ever since that day one of us invented it。 I can't remember who。 I think it was me。 You had to pick somebody。
You had to think of someone everybody knew。 Someone you could imitate and everyone else would have to guess who it was。 It started out with famous people： Wonder Woman； the Beatles； Marilyn Monroe。。。 But then somebody thought it'd be better if we changed the game a little； if we pretended we were Mr。 Benny； or his wife Blanca； or Ruthie； or anybody we knew。
I don't know why we picked her。 Maybe we were bored that day。 Maybe we got tired。 We liked my aunt。 She listened to our stories。 She always asked us to e back。 Lucy； me； Rachel。 I hated to go there alone。 The six blocks to the dark apartment； second…floor rear building where sunlight never came； and what did it matter？ My aunt was blind by then。 She never saw the dirty dishes in the sink。 She couldn't see the ceilings dusty with flies； the ugly maroon walls； the bottles and sticky spoons。 I can't forget the smell。 Like sticky capsules filled with jelly。 My aunt； a little oyster； a little piece of meat on an open shell for us to look at。 Hello； hello。 As if she had fallen into a well。
I took my library books to her house。 I read her stories。 I liked the book The Water Babies。 She liked it too。 I never knew how sick she was until that day I tried to show her one of the pictures in the book； a beautiful color picture of the water babies swimming in the sea。 I held the book up to her face。 I can't see it； she said； I'm blind。 And then I was ashamed。
She listened to every book； every poem I read her。 one day I read her one of my own。 I came very close。 I whispered it into the pillow：
………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………
生辰不吉（3）
I want to be
like the waves on the sea；
like the clouds in the wind；
but I'm me。
One day I'll jump
out of my skin。
I'll shake the sky
like a hundred violins。
That's nice。 That's very good； she said in her tired voice。 You just remember to keep writing； Esperanza。 You must keep writing。 It will keep you free； and I said yes； but at that time I didn't know what she meant。
The day we played the game； we didn't know she was going to die。 We pretended with our heads thrown back； our arms limp and useless； dangling like the dead。 We laughed the way she did。 We talked the way she talked； the way blind people talk without moving their head。 We imitated the way you had to lift her head a little so she could drink water； she sucked it up slow out of a green tin cup。 The water was warm and tasted like metal。 Lucy laughed。 Rachel too。 We took turns being her。 We screamed in the weak voice of a parrot for Totchy to e and wash those dishes。 It was easy。
We didn't know。 She had been dying such a long time； we forgot。 Maybe she was ashamed。 Maybe she was embarrassed it took so many years。 The kids who wanted to be kids instead of washing dishes and ironing their papa's shirts； and the husband who wanted a wife again。
And then she died； my aunt who listened to my poems。
And then we began to dream the dreams。
………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………
阁楼上的流浪者
我想要一所山上的房子，像爸爸工作的地方那样的花园房。星期日，爸爸的休息日，我们会去那里。我过去常去。现在不去了。你长大了，就不喜欢和我们一起出去吗？爸爸说。你傲起来了。蕾妮说。我没告诉他们我很羞愧——我们一帮人全都盯着那里的窗户，像饥饿的人。我厌倦了盯着我不能拥有的东西。如果我们赢了彩票……妈妈才开口，我就不要听了。
那些住在山上、睡得靠星星如此近的人，他们忘记了我们这些住在地面上的人。他们根本不朝下看，除非为了体会住在山上的心满意足。上星期的垃圾，对老鼠的恐惧，这些与他们无关。夜晚来临，没什么惊扰他们的梦，除了风。
有一天我要拥有自己的房子，可我不会忘记我是谁我从哪里来。路过的流浪者会问，我可以进来吗？我会把他们领上阁楼，请他们住下来，因为我知道没有房子的滋味。
有些日子里，晚饭后，我和朋友们坐在火旁。楼上的地板吱呀吱呀响。阁楼上有咕咕哝哝的声音。
是老鼠吗？他们会问。
是流浪者。我会回答说。我很开心。
Bums in the Attic
I want a house on a hill like the ones with the gardens where Papa works。 We go on Sundays； Papa's day off。 I used to go。 I don't anymore。 You don't like to go out with us； Papa says。 Getting too old？ Getting too stuck…up； says Nenny。 I don't tell them I am ashamed……all of us staring out the window like the hungry。 I am tired of looking at what we can't have。 When we win the lottery。。。Mama begins； and then I stop listening。
People who live on hills sleep so close to the stars they forget those of us who live too much on earth。 They don't look down at all except to be content to live on hills。 They have nothing to do with last week's garbage or fear of rats。 Night es。 Nothing wakes them but the wind。
One day I'll own my own house； but I won't forget who I am or where I came from。 Passing bums will ask； Can I e in？ I'll offer them the attic； ask them to stay； because I know how it is to