In my family we have different voices. Dad has a voice deep like a well. His sharp voice mixes with his islander accent, rowdy rabid accent. His voice is like a fire in winter, but when he gets angry and shouts, it feels like a freezing bucket of ice and my toes scream.

Mom has a voice sweet as a spoonful of honey, her velvet-like voice wraps me with a hug. Her voice is white like the spongy clouds where angels lay down.

My brothers make squeaky shouting sounds that leave me a sour taste in my mouth.

Carlos voice is small and joyful, like the sound of the town fair. His voice is the taste of a juicy junk of watermelon, dripping liquid on my blouse. Jaime’s voice is like rage red, often serene but bumpy. When I hear my voice I feel purple, dizzy, frustrated.

Purple, red, white and all the colors of the rainbow.