With the cold air blowing through the door, as brother Martin leaves for school, I stare into the soft, loving eyes of my newly adopted Argentinean father, Eduardo. Whose mustache is a tinge darker than his fluffy thinning hair, and whose eyes soak me up. Surrounding me with love, and engulfing me. Each time I let my gaze reach his, I find myself unable to keep from smiling. It’s like one of those dreams, that you never want to wake up until it has ran it’s coarse.

Papa tries to tell me that I must bundle up, but the only thing I understand is from the movements of his hands, as he points to my neck and then to the scarf in his hand. I attempt to talk, but fail horribly. My broken Castillano and froggy voice received over the night a few nights ago, are of no use to me. I try to say that I will be fine without it, for I do not want to humble myself and borrow Mama Monica’s scarf. Papa and Mama Monica refuse my answer, and Papa begins to wrap the scarf around my neck two times around. Mama Monica rejects his poor attempt at wrapping the scarf around me, and takes it under her own initiative.

As I stand there watching them drape me with the scarf, I feel like I am two years old, and two feet high, but rather I am taller than both of them.