Reflections - cover2

Mexico
I wonder in my motherly way if he is getting enough to eat himself – if those pants he wears gathered around his thin waist tied with a rope are the
result of hunger or simply a hand-me-down from an older brother. I wonder how much of life he knows too soon in the tiny house where he lives
with a mother and uncounted brothers and sisters, what the soft brown eyes hide about the hardness of life, what resentment stands behind the
deferential manner and voice? Does he go to school, does he dream, does he hope? Will life be good for this small brown, barefooted
entrepreneur?
The ceviche is passed around on a hard flat tortilla for the “prueba” – everyone agrees that it will do. Relief shows in the brown eyes and now
comes the final negotiations – the price. Nothing is ever set, but fluctuates daily in relationship to the price of fish. Today the negotiator is
scrutinizing the ratio of incongruous ingredients. There are more carrots and less fish than yesterday, so the price should be lower. The boy
dismisses saying that it is indeed the same. The discussion seems interminable, but a price is finally reached; lower than he had asked, but higher
than first offered. Next arrives the “pico de gallo” – cucumbers, pineapple, oranges, apples, watermelon, cantaloupe, all chopped and diced
together, sprinkled with salt and left to make its own juice. We dive in with sandy fingers, each after our favorite morsels. Sand begins to collect in
the juice at the bottom of the bowl. It is not a problem worthy of discussion.
Long minutes slide into hours. Fragmented thoughts and bits of conversation float in and out of consciousness. Nothing is sustained for any long
period of time – we just drift. There are no plans, no organization, no attempt to schedule – the day just happens, one thing flowing into the next.
This is Mexico.
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