Growing up in the sweltering heat in my home in Brazil, I dreamt of the snowy mountains depicted in one of my favorite movies, The Sound of Music. I would run and twirl with my arms outstretched, my head facing the sky as I belted my version of the "The hills are alive" song, rolling my tongue in what I believe to be English.
The Sound of MusicI would twirl and sing for two minutes under the hot January sun before collapsing on the grass breathless, looking for any vestige of water molecules leftover from the morning dew.
My face rested on the cool grass, giving me some relief as the sweat poured down my face. As I lay in the grass, I would summon the image of the snow-capped mountains in the Swiss Alps, seen in the background where Maria, the lucky nun, got to run and play.
My mother w
