Eight months pregnant. Nineteen. Alone. Bewildered and still recovering from the madness of the eighties. Did that wall calendar really claim to be July 1991? Perhaps the summer in Washington Heights was just getting to me mentally and physically. Every one of my 10 toes looked like salchichas and the matching puddles in the left and right cups… Continue reading The Greatest Love of All
Fierce Latinas Shine Light 