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.