The waiting room was full of grown-up people. (7-8)
Here Elizabeth makes a distinction between herself and the other people
in the waiting room. They're "grown-ups"; she's definitely not one of
and while I waited I read the National Geographic (I could read) (13-15)
Elizabeth sounds like a smarty-pants here. She's not even seven years
old and she can already read a magazine for adults. She seems pretty
proud of this.
I said to myself: three days and you'll be seven years old. (54-55)
She reminds herself of her age here as if to calm her crazy thoughts. It's like she's saying, I'm too young for such big ideas!
I gave a sidelong glance —I couldn't look any higher— at shadowy gray knees, trousers and skirts and boots and different pairs of hands lying under lamps. (66-71)
From this comment, it sounds like Elizabeth is sitting on the floor, and
looking up at the adults in the waiting room. It makes a pretty clear
distinction between herself and them. She can't see their whole bodies –
she's stuck looking at their knees and their clothing just above her
What similarities— boots, hands, the family voice I felt in my throat, or even the National Geographic and those awful hanging breasts— held us all together or made us all just one? (77-83)
Elizabeth tries to figure out the connection between herself
and the adults in the poem. What does she have in common with Aunt
Consuelo, with the women in the magazine, and with the adult patients in
the waiting room? What keeps them apart?