Lenna Marcel
We used to have an old transistor radio, perched on the window ledge, next to the door of the house, with the frosted glass behind the wrought iron flowers. Every single morning, I would switch it on. Martha would come out the house, her face scrubbed so raw it glowed, and the coffee steam that rose from the little cup she carried would follow behind her. With her other hand she held her diary and a dictionary. Only God knew how old that loosely strung together, stained, dog-eared, ripped-apart dictionary was, but I remember it since I remember myself.
Her ‘diary’ was an old jacket of hers, where she would sew on a word for each day of the year. My sister liked to keep track of time with words. Her wardrobe didn’t just carry plain clothes but meanings contained in colourful,
