Casitas: homes, or other synonyms for people
I
Wailing children awaited me every morning and afternoon. Sticky remnants of spilled soda on leather seats, cracked with age, wiggled with each node in the journey. We sat. Only 6:45 am and we shipped ourselves to another barren municipality. Its main attraction was a colonnade of multicolor wooden houses, reflected on the dew, magnetized to the bus’ windows, foggy with nature’s chilled morning breath. Hours and bell rings later, kids were balmy, proving intelligence by spelling “Call of Duty” as K-A-L-O D-U-T-I.
II
Exposed wooden ceilings.
expose,
the Fanta powder beneath the wooden cabinets,
swiftly swept so Madrinita would not know we poured an extra glass.
Our bikes jerked with the sidewalk’s potholes.
Our knees never got a break from the chipped cement,
cheeks never rested from disruptive cackles,
and foreheads never thirsted for more beads of sweat.
III
Down the street and up the stairs was a universe on platforms and behind wooden doors. Of rough tiles and scattered paintings. Of floor fans and makeshift TV antennas.
Tata greeted us with her sage hands & everything savored, heavenly. In monogrammed glasses, she served water that somehow tasted better than that of the same kind in any other cup, in any other home.
Sole Magazine