Invisibility. What is it? Who’s invisible? All of us? How?
8.
Frank takes off. Where he goes no one knows. He’s free. He lives his life. He has many lives. There’s a million donuts in Donut Land. My mother, Lucy, gave me at tray of Arroz con Leche.
It’s at Frank’s place. You gotta have some one day.
Frank is right, I am always talking to myself. My mother lives on 17th & Mission St. Right above Kline’s Piano. Second floor. A hundred stairs. Low light ochre yellow. Apt. #5. My tía Tere in #8. My tios Lela and Ferni, #10. On that floor they exist in a Méxican filter from the 20’s. It is quiet when you pop down the stairs. Step onto Mission St. Fried Chicken, the Excelsior newspaper, the Esto Sports page. Jergen’s lotion at the Bon Ami sundry. Movies sometimes, Clavillazo, Pedro Infante, Sarita Montiel at La Victoria and the Tower Theatre. It’s all within a five block radius. Frank knows all this. There is something about my familia that is too real. We are still invisible. Before you cross the border you want to be invisible. When you succeed crossing you make sure you are invisible. When your invisibility dissolves, society carves out an invisible pattern of tunnels for your daily minimalist life.
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