Deliver Me
A young Latino rang my doorbell a few minutes ago. He must have been ten years old, maybe twelve, and he held two large rectangles of cardboard, taped together around the edges with oil-splattered duct tape. He handed me the thin package and let loose with a torrent of information, all in Spanish. I only caught a few words, but out of context they didn't make sense. I asked him to slow down, asked him if he wanted something cool to drink or a snack, asked him to sit for a moment on my wooden bench. He said No, just stood and looked at me with a confused expression.
"Uno momento." I ran inside the house, plunked the cardboard on the kitchen table, and grabbed the change jar I keep by the telephone. It only held nickels and pennies, maybe a two or three dollars at most, and I poured it into his open hands. He waved goodbye and ran down my hilly street.
I opened the cardboard with a serrated knife. Xihuitl's art. A piece of paper one foot by two. One bird, a grackle perhaps, or a blackbird, flying over the canyon by the lagoon, a darkness from the east rushing to his tail. It's extraordinary. It's beautiful and fierce. It's not pretty at all. I love it.
1:29:08 PM 
|
|
