If you happen to be reading these words,
it means you have access to my thoughts.

My chest is filled with emotions,
my brain is loaded with thoughts,
but words can't flow out of my mouth.
I'm a voiceless boy.

Yes, I can speak!
But fear is an agent that
keeps my mouth constantly shut.
Fear to offend, fear to provoke,
fear to call attention on me.

Completely silent I'm not!
Ink and paper often become my voice,
they are my lips and my tongue.

I go by the name of Sacco.

Around fifty-three-hundred days ago,
I was born to an American mother and
a Mexican father, but for the last eight
years, mother and I have been on our
own.

What a painful pity!
A mother with no option but to join
the workforce while still embracing
a visceral desire to be home with
her offspring.

But duty has a way to seize the hearts
of some people, that they can't ignore
fiscal obligations nor emotional strings.
And children usually fall under both
categories.

Poor Martha.

Martha is my mother's name.

In spite of it all,
self-pity doesn't torment our home.
Constant fatigue and occasional anxiety
are Martha's only complaints.

What you ought to know,
is that Martha is the best customer
service representative at Max Massimo
Manufacturing. She has a decent salary
and even gets some benefits as well.

But don't be fooled!
Kindness has nothing to do with her
compensation. The company makes sure
they squeeze Martha's juice until she
ends up looking like the Aral Sea.

And her productivity doesn't stop there.
Four nights a week Martha steps
downstairs into our basement,
to process information for a tech
company here in Cathedral County.

How else could we afford our four-
bedroom brick-home, our one-year-old
vehicle, and my basketball gear!?

I cannot resist thinking of the life ahead
of me. Martha always reminds me to
enjoy life and live in the present, but
creating images of a successful future
is a joy I simply cannot let go.

Driving with Martha sparks my
imagination. And even though I have a
preference for picturing the future,
music and my surroundings often take
me back in time.

With Burman's Riverside freely
flowing all around us, my spirit
becomes acquainted with the
souls living in our streets:
one-hundred-year-old gardens,
melting roofs ready to collapse,
rows of bungalows and cottages,
window frames and archways
made out of ginger snaps.

At ten-thousand feet in the air,
dragons sleep beneath the earth.
Their serpentine spines stand
with pride, as witnesses of time.
Whether for oblivion or revenge
today they're called:
the rugged peaks
of the Wasatch Range.

We are now home and Martha is fixing
dinner. I am shooting baskets at the
hoop hanging on my bedroom door.

Caramelizing onions is the most
interesting process.

First you chop them,
and you know it's against their will
because they hurt you until you cry.
They want to be left alone.

You eat them raw and discover
they're a gang of bitter rascals.

You tell them fire will help them
change, and it'll make it so
they can have more friends.

Little by little
the heat calms them down.

A well-seasoned fever,
a good amount of patience,
and a thousand grains of salt,
tame their personality.

You know the alchemy is working
when your kitchen gets flooded
with a lively and succulent smell.

When done,
the rascals have transformed
into pure sweet gold.

Caramelized onions
are a top seasoning partner
for endless recipes.