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Diana’s Point Of View
After we shopped, Billy and I sat in the kitchen surrounded by an ocean of shopping bags. He was amazed by the variety of colors and clothes styles, mostly taking my advice about what he should wear. He drank orange juice or water, never soda, and I knew he hadn’t enjoyed sweets, probably one of the few health benefits his parent’s indifference toward him had provided.
He stared at me through wide, innocent blue eyes, figuring me out while sucking orange juice that Maria made him through a straw. He was an inquisitive boy when not hiding in a shell, although, even out of it, Billy was painfully shy.
“Are you like me, Diana… with math, I mean?”
“I’m similar but not as good.”
“What was your Mom and Dad like?’
“I was raised by a father who loved me very much, just like I love you. Dad worked hard but took the time to help me when he could.”
“Was he good at math?”
“No, but he can cook like a genius.”
“I see numbers as shapes and colors. It’s easy to memorize them that way.”
“I see the same thing but not as deeply as you do.”
“My numbers live in a garden, and I can touch and hear them.”