In Oaxaca...Dec. 20
We are here!!.. Mexico!..settling into our home.Christmas already !
And yet my mood is unsettled; I'm still trying to soak in all that has happened. Still adjusting, sort of. Perhaps that is why I am so rocked, in an appropriate, timely and uncomfortable way by the story below.
My mood right now, wants this to be.. "My Christmas Letter" to share with others.
Cuz it rocks me. I didn't write, but all the better..for I get to share it.
from a short story by Sandra Cisneros:
Every year I cross the border into Mexico, it's the same, my mind sometimes forgets. But my body always remembers.
Church bells ring over and over, all day, even when it's not any o'clock. Roosters. Dogs barking. Birthday cakes walking out of a bakery without a box, just like that, on a wooden plate. Vendors selling all kinds of things with chile, lime juice and salt. Balloon vendors. The pork rind vendor. The fried-banana vendor. The vendor of strawberries and cream. The meringue man. The coffee man with the coffeemaker machine on his back and a paper cup dispenser, the cream and sugar boy following behind him.
Little girls in Sunday dresses like lace bells, like umbrellas, like parachutes. Houses painted purple, electric blue, tiger orange, aguamarine, hibiscus red with a yellow and green fence. Above doorways, faded wreaths from an anniversary or death till the wind and rain erase them.
Fireworks displays, pinata makers, palm weavers. A restaurant called...His Majesty, the Taco. The smell of diesel exhaust, the smell of most everyone roasting chillies. The smell of the countryside like the top of your head on a sunny day. And every now and then, on the shoulder of the road, crosses to mark where someones soul walked away from their body.
--Don't look, says Mother when we drive past, but that only makes us want to look even more.
In the middle of nowhere, we have to stop and let the car cool. We all tumble out to stretch our legs.
When I turn around three kids are staring at us, a girl sucking the hem of her faded dress. Father talks to them as he checks the tires.
--Is that your sister? Remember to take good care of her. Where do you all live? Over there?
Talking and talking like this seems to me to take a long time.
Just as we are about to leave, Father takes my rubber doll from the car and says,--I'll buy you another one.
Before I can say anything, my baby is in the arms of that girl! How can I explain, this is my Bobby doll, two fingers missing on his left hand because I chewed them off when I was teething. There isn't another Bobby doll like it! But I can't say this fast enough when Father hands it to that girl.
My brother and sister's toy trucks disappear too.
The three kids clamber off into the hills of dust and loose gravel with our toys. We can't take our eyes off them, our mouths open wide, the backseat filled with our howls.
--You kids are too spoiled, Father scolds when we drive away.
Over the shoulder of the running girl, do I imagine or do I really see, the rubber arm of my Bobby doll, the one with three fingers, raised in the air waving goodbye?
The End
Ecclesiates 11:1-2
Be generous: Invest in acts of charity. Charity yields high returns. Don't hoard your goods, spread them around. Be a blessing to others. This could be your last night.
Adios, Feliz Navidad,
Bruce
