She is a living record of what can’t be found in history books Diluted sheets can never capture the layers of life that she wears on her face like armor. Each crease, sculpted by the love for her children. No nip and tuck to help erase the bitter winters that pierced through her skin like daggers or the nights she laid her head against bare floors that bore blisters on her spirit No sweet lullaby to sing for the aspirations she carried on her back like a new born baby Her eyes, heavy from centuries of disappointment, still warm up souls like sancocho Her lips have only spoken the truth even when she wasn’t understood Navigating through unfamiliar places, with strange faces, and labeled an alien A word used to describe anything that is different Never fulfilling prophecies of men destined to be kings but instead nurtured boys whose lives would end before they began. Searching for justice in a foreign land, ambition is now placed in the hands of future generations. She is a living record of what can’t be found in history books. She is history that hasn’t been written yet.