The sky wasn't always a moody blue. At one point, it was a Mr. Blue Sky when I lived under the wing of my aunt. Things went into motion on a Friday when mom and dad died in a car accident; I was 8 years old at the time. The police contacted my relatives and the one that responded to take the plateful was this woman I never heard of: Valentina. She was an enigma at the time, a dark horse who would later become my place of reverie and refuge. I remember the only thing my other aunts and uncles did was that they tore my parents' property apart and gambled it off like Jesus' garments during the crucifixion. Unlike this unknown relative, I had memories talking and eating with them but now that I saw their true colors as hyenas infected by a virulent greed I knew they never truly cared for me. They confiscated my parents' possessions and took legal ownership over our home like a hermit crab does to a vacant shell. They took away the remnants of the place I once loved and called home.

The night when Valentina brought me into her home all I wanted to do was cry. And so I did when she showed me to my room where I plopped down on the bed and I ran a river under the veil of darkness. I thought about my parents and how I would never see them again; I thought about my home and old friends and how they were torn away from me like tissue. My way of life had changed for what I thought was the worse. The world I had crumbled, killing the king and queen of its kingdom and leaving their daughter injured among the rubble and destruction. She didn't know what else to do but simply cry. The foreign smell of the pillow and room was suffocating and intensified the pain and all hell was loose and there was no more hope and light in a world of everlasting night. The unprecedented change in environment estranged me and the throbbing within my heart was nailed with the hammer of loneliness. I laid there in the intoxicating room for at least an hour before calming my despair and replacing it with a facade of bitter acceptance.

I remember controlling the sobbing until a gentle knock asked if I could come out and talk. I tried to compose myself and wobbled towards the streak of orange light emitting from the gaps in the door, behind it was her, a woman with rustled black hair sitting in the dimly lit hallway with her back against the wall and her toes standing on the opposite one. She was blankly having a smoke until I appeared in her horizon. "You hungry?" she asked weakly, yet, invitingly. My stomach mouthed my answer and a light breached her face and the cigarette flew upwards in a silent hooray. Half of her face was covered by the soft and unruly locks of black hair but I could fully see her impish smile that brought an odd peace into my heart. But it did not bring full trust. She was still a stranger.

She didn't hold my hand when proceeding to show me her humble abode; it was a wise choice in my opinion. I think she sensed my discomfort in the idea of her taking on the mantle of holding my unadjusted hand and simply snuffed hers into the pockets of her worn out black cardigan; it had many leeching dust-balls hooked onto its fuzzy surface. It was made clear by the dark contrast of the fabric's dark color. The kitchen was connected to the living room and she signaled me to set myself on the marble table (a feat made difficult with her high chair). A chill ran down my spine as I discovered a streak of a sticky substance stained my hand. She noticed the blemish and immediately wiped it away. "Yeah," she smiled embarrassingly, "wasn't expecting a kid to come over so I didn't have the time to clean the place (phew)." I silently thought You also didn't have time to do that messy hair of yours either.

The walls were grimy and the stove had a thin sea of oil that kept some food debris afloat. The only decoration she had was a dying plant that sat in its ceramic pot near the entrance door and a couch that slouched awkwardly in the middle of nowhere. This wasn't my home I thought, but mid-way through my dismay the voice of my new guardian attracted the attention of my eyes off the poverty and destitution and onto her captivating smile. "Water's boiling; watch it as I (phew) properly make your room." As she said this, she gave a small little dance back to the room I drenched with my sorrow. I watched the fire strangely fluttering on the stove and I pretended that it was a campfire blazing a fine blue, lifting my hands up to capture its warmth. It was all nice and all until the image of my mom and dad sitting by the campfire weltered the good-feeling and the power from my arms dissipated and slumped down from overpowering weakness. They invaded my thoughts and brought only gloom.

I peered into the pot and discovered that she was making Mac n' Cheese. Meanwhile, I could hear her breaking concrete walls in the other room: shoes crashed down on the floor like rain and a bunch of tinkering from metallic or glass objects could be heard as she was wrangling them up as a heard. She finally came out, the door flew wide open with a slam against the wall (which was dented from impact in my inspection of the damage), dragging a large bag of clutter and shoved it into another room and strutted back to me with even more mess in her hair and in her baggy eyes.

"Phew," she cooed, "all clear ma'am." She stationed herself and carried one with her business with the macaroni, straining the water and leaving it in the sink until she whipped out a large pan and oiled its non-stick surface. Bags of meat, tomatoes, and onions appeared and I began to witness the next iron chef at work as she quickly shaved the beef into uniform slices and minced the tomatoes and onions with the speed of a rabbit's heart. She then blazed the trinity into a holy communion and the smell of cigarettes got shoved away by its culinary and more welcoming scented cousin. The result of her efforts was a mighty meal that enticed the savagery of my hunger with delight but the way she placed the gourmet between us scared the beast in my stomach to back off and humble itself to giving politeness and an enduring patience. All I wanted to hear was the "go ahead".

"I know this day wasn't something you wanted," she said sympathetically, "but we can make this work. You n' me? We're gonna have to be a team to get out well and alive (phew). You up for the challenge?" The way she spoke was much different from my mom and dad's way of speaking. She made me feel like an equal. It was somewhat reassuring. There was an inviting calmness to it all and a hint of adventure that blew away the clouds in the sky and called forth happy and sunny sailings. It was a warm love that filled my bereft and devoid hope; a molten love that solidified itself in the cracks and crevices of my ruined heart. I nodded giving a light "Mmm."

"Perfect," she smiled again, "name's Valentina. You can call me Val or auntie or..." she trailed off on the or and her eyes squinted with a flashing pain and continued, "Whatever you want (phew). I can be that 'asshole' for all I care." After finishing her delicious art, she showed me the new and improved room she renovated and all there was left was a cool breeze; almost everything was removed except the bed and small clock. The smoke was aired out and I saw the source of the vacuum: a window that was strangely barred on the outside. It looked like the room was a prison cell. Valentina noticed my observation and noted, with her mind reading abilities, "Ehh it kinda does look like a birdcage in that perspective or the bars of a prison cell. But," she made a pivotal pause to phew, "if you think about it, the bars of the window keep unwanted criminals from entering your room. It can even keep you from falling out and plunging into your dea- d-doom"

A little-accomplished sigh slid from her lips and she silently smiled exhaustedly, "This'll be just fine." She glanced at me, "Enjoy,” her eyes jumped a bit, “Make yourself at ho- umm make yourself comfortable." She left me alone and I heard the couch thud and groan in the living room. In the corner of the room, the small electronic clock revealed its theory of the world and time and space and I saw that it was 1 in the morning.

Valentina worked, as I later learned, three jobs: she worked at the cleaners in the morning, she worked as a waitress at a diner, and she worked as whatever she needed to be to get the job on the weekends (at the time she was a sitter). Despite her busy life, she brought me in to take care for. An unwise move given her financial circumstances. However, through my years with her, I think she brought me in because she saw something glimmer in her eye. She didn’t want the shine to die off with rust and took it in to maintain its prestige appearance. She saw something in me that gave her the impulses to grab on to that opportunity immediately. I think she wanted to prevent something from falling apart. Regardless of her purpose, I think she never saw value in me as a person but me as a life. She saw a light glow amidst the shrouding gloom that had to be protected. She saw that it was going to be robbed of its luminescence and took the crucial action of conserving that goodness with her sheltering hands. However, through our history together, she would make the light more than sustainable; she would make it set fire.