Fall - I strum a gentle melody on my guitar. The comforting notes paint an image in arpeggio amid the shuffling leaves. I see a woman through the cafe window writing carefully amid the bustle.

Winter - The snowflakes in the streetlights tinkle like a spoon tapped against precious glass. Melancholy violins rise together in crescendo as my mind wanders wrapped in blankets.

Spring - Spring comes and we dance amid the mountain grasses. Our flutes weave together and lively drums stir the soul. Our hearts are singing as we prepare for great adventure.

Summer - at night we chant and stamp our boots around the fire. At morn we meander on our ways to the lazy oboe. My feet dangle from a hammock as I read, tickled by violins like sun-bleached grass.

Thighs.

Arms.

Back fat.

How easily lies form

between my lips.

I'm never on time.

My car is a trash can.

My house is dusty.

I don't do the dishes every day.

No matter what I philosophize,

I'm as selfish as hell.

My cloying vanity.

My need for attention.

My propensity to judge.

It's all so ugly.

You should run.

I've heard the jokes.

An Asian woman in a white-washed country,

they ask me how disappointed my parents were,

if I "brought shame upon my famiry"

if they tried to lose me in an alley,

or down a flight of stairs.

"That's the Chinese," I answer meekly,

though I'd like to both ignore them

and lose them down the stairs,

"who only want sons.

Women are worth a lot

in my culture."

I enjoy the surprise,

the occasional murmurs of approval.

What I don't say,

is that women are worth more

the way gold is worth more than silver.

When I was young,

a woman was beaten for being caught

smiling to a man

who was not her cheating husband.

He left her, shamed and broken,

and my mother told me

not to laugh too loudly,

or stand too proudly,

and to never be friends with boys.

As women,

we are not women.

We are daughters, wives,

mothers,

like livestock, already fated,

born to be sold, born to be bred,

born to live and die,

for family.

"Hide, Marisa! Get under the bed!" Mama paced frantically around the room. Her eyes locked with mine, and she repeated, "Marisa, get under the bed NOW."

"But-" I started.

"You're worried about me," Mama finished. "Right. I'll be okay; I promise. But you..." She took in a breath.

"I can't bear to lose you, Mama," I whispered, running into her arms. "Not now. Not ever."

Mama embraced me in a hug. "I know, darling. I know."

A harsh voice sounded from outside. "Who's in there? Let us in! Open up!"

Mama looked down at me, her eyes full of tears. "Marisa. You must hide." A tear trickled down her face and landed in my hand.

I wanted to cry, too, but I couldn't. I had to be strong. I took in a shuddering breath and closed my fingers around the tear. "I love you, Mama," I murmured.

Suddenly, the door burst open. I dived under the bed, and watched as soldiers marched into the room.

One of the soldiers held his gun to Mama's throat. "You a Jew?" His tone was harsh and demanding.

Mama's eyes widened. "No, no! We are loyal to Hitler!"

"Really?" The soldier sneered. "Or is this your plan? To make us look like fools, believing you are loyal to Hitler, when you are a Jew in disguise?"

I clenched my teeth together, trying to keep from jumping on the solider. My fingers dug into my hand, and I realized I was drawing blood. I loosened my grip.

Mama drew in a breath. "Look around. There is no proof in this house that I am a Jew."

The soldier did look around, opening books, tearing out pages, smashing pictures. Mama flinched, but did not protest, as it may seem suspicious.

My heart started to pound in my chest as the soldier came towards the bed I was underneath. I watched Mama press her hand to her lips, to keep from crying out. For a moment, our gazes met, and then Mama looked away.

When the soldier did not look under the bed, I let out a sigh of relief. A moment later, I realized my mistake.

The soldier bent down and peered under the bed. When he saw me, his lips curled into a snarl.

He dragged me out from under the bed, I bumped my head on the frame. I let out a sharp cry of pain, but the soldier just smacked my arm. "What were you doing under there?" He demanded.

"H-hiding," I stammered.

"Oh, yes?" The soldier hissed. "Hiding. Why?"

My mind raced to think of an excuse. "Me and Mama, we were playing a game."

"A game?" The soldier asked doubtfully. "How old are you? Twelve? You shouldn't be playing games at that age."

"S-sorry..." I muttered.

"Yay! Game!" Annabelle tottered into the room, her face cracked into a smile. "We play game, Mama?" She asked, toddling over to Mama.

"Yes," I said, turing to the soldier. "We were playing a game. With her."

The soldier's eyes softened. "I have a daughter, about her age," he said. "Ah... Well. We have no evidence that you are Jews, so we shall leave."

Mama nodded. "Thank you, sir." But her eyes swiveled to the shattered picture frames and torn books.

When we heard to soldiers leave, Mama collapsed onto my bed. "That was close," she said. She looked from me to Annabelle. "Too close," she added.

Annabelle was still smiling. "We play game, Mama?" she asked again.

"Not now, baby girl," she murmured. I watched Mama breath in the soapy scent of Annabelle. "I love you. You know that, don't you, my lovely daughters?"

"Always," I said.