Tamales

    It’s one o’clock. The sound of metal wheels grinding against their rusted axles came to my ears. Her elderly, matriarchal voice calls out: ‘Tamales!’ 

    I walk towards my open window, looking down. She’s pushing an aluminum cart carrying a tray full of tamales wrapped in tin foil. She calls out again. There are no customers.

    I ask my neighbors about the woman as we sit around drinking and smoking that late afternoon. She’s a regular, they say, always comes to the building at one P.M. I ask if anyone buys from her: ‘No. No one.’

    The next day she arrives. I stand by my open window. I have a better look at her. She is exhausted, but pushes her cart with dignity. 

    ‘Tamales!’ she calls. 

    No one comes out for a meal. She turns to leave but I run after her, wallet in hand. We meet on the sidewalk. Her eyes remind me of my abuelita on the last day I saw her. ‘Cuanto cuestas?’ I asked.

    ‘Un dolar,’ she said.

    I brought the tamale back to my kitchen, unwrapping it on a plate. It’s still warm and smells good.

    I took a bite. A tear came to my eye.

Tale: b

    I decided to be alone in the place where light and water meet. 

    Below me, the sea laps; and above me, the sky moistens with fog. The eucalyptus trees whisper gently behind me. I look up and see the sun radiating coolly. There is peace here, I think. 

    Then, the hour comes. 

    Invaders rush towards the sea; their talk is drowning it. From the eucalyptus line, more come through - always in pairs; always in groups.

    The peace is gone, my peace. A frosty disk above in the sky is the only remains of that past.

Story: a

    It is chilly, but good. There are traces of heat left. I hear the gentle waves of the sea and the lazy cries of the birds above. I open my eyes. 

    There beyond me, the darkened outline of an island in the horizon. 

    The sky, rich with smooth lavender and creamy orange, burning dimly with yellow, until that dying disk cuts through the slit. 

    The horizon is living. And here I sit among the sand and vines, lighting a cigarette, contributing a little piece of me.