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.