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Journal Entry No. 2: 12/09/93

When I see this picture I see Mexico. I am standing on the street, my eyes are either closed or
squinted; maybe I blinked. I am eight years old, I have short black hair, and I am wearing an enormous
smile. I have no shirt on. I have a pair of light colored pants on that are covered in a white powder, my black shoes are also covered in powder. I look happy. Some one is next to me, you can only see their elbow. It is my mom being buried by the big red grinding machine. The grinder stood tall. It was old, the red paint became pale through use and exposure, losing appeal. When it was covered in its product it seemed to add courage and devotion its character. It was anchored wi...