I look over at the portrait of the Boriken woman nestled inside the window frame. She looks confident in her Puerto Rican flag dress standing barefoot on a map of the island. The map is filled with things that I love about Puerto Rico, the Flamboyán tree, coconuts, mangoes, and places like El Morro. La Borikua looks out at me. She is a dark-skinned woman with half blonde and half black, straight hair to represent our mixed Afro-Indigenous and European heritage. The story of colonization in all of us. The painting hangs over the small pink watercolor box filled with sand from Puerto Rico that a fellow community worker brought home for me after Hurricane Maria. I take a deep breath in, remembering the saltwater smell of Luquillo Beach and the sound of the waves crashing against my legs the last time I was there. Inside the box, at an angle, leaning against the window, stands the rain stick from El Yunque from the time we went with abuelo Carmelo. Long before his passing. I was twenty-two. My impressionist mirror stands to the right. The top aligns with the top of the window, the bottom leans out, leaving a space behind for the ironing board, weights, and wires. On the top left light green corner of the mirror, a silver, glitter foam-letter J. Above it, a Borikua symbol for the sun.