Even If

I'm at my perch in the kitchen, working a folktale I found about two sisters--Araw and Buwan, in love with the same man--into a long piece I'm writing. A mother is telling the story to her own teenage daughters:

Now Corazon and Baby leaned forward, and Maria Delgado was pleased with the power of her tale and the feeling--nearly forgotten now--of holding her daughters in thrall.

And later:

That night Corazon and Baby went to their mother separately, each with the same question. "Am I Araw or Buwan?" Maria Delgado gave them both the same answer and then hoped for the best.

Meanwhile, Lea is at the dining room table making a family out of markers and crayons. She didn't draw a family; the family is literally the markers and crayons. She comes into the kitchen, takes my hand and walks me to the table for the introductions. "This is the Mommy," she says, holding up a yellow marker, which heads the perfect line (a small chasm separates the parents from the kids). "And the Daddy is purple. And these are the kids. This one's the baby." The kids are crayon rejects, the stubbiest of the stubby, all about the same size. "Do you want to be the baby?" she asks, putting the sparkly blue one in my hand.

And in the family room, Risa and Vida--flush with having learned the important skill of turning on the stereo and picking their CD and song of choice--are blaring Sheryl Crow's Soak Up the Sun, spinning around in tank tops and skirts, oblivious to the reality of cold weather on the other side of the window. In their running conversation they fabricate a random situation and then pick the parts that each will play. "Okay! Okay! I'm the big sister!" Risa will yell. "Okay!" says Vida, "My leg is broken, and you have to take care of me!"

Just past noon, we sit down together for crunchy, gooey grilled cheese sandwiches and it occurs to me that we have all been doing the same thing: making worlds, telling stories. Even if we're the only ones listening.