This month one of my Spanish Lessons was published. This little collection of essays warms my heart and although I’m a long way from being fluent in Spanish I really love the way it makes me look at the world a little differently. This particular essay I wrote many years ago when Lalo was a baby and we were leaving Mexico. I wonder if time has made it too neat of a package now. The original draft wasn’t quite so tidy, but then the editor wanted it to be a little more explicit. So, I’m reminding myself that the meaning in an essay (or any piece of art, really) is a joint effort between the writer and the reader. So, dear Reader, I hope you will help this one come alive. Here it is, in Segullah Magazine: Casa
Berenice and I sat in chairs, facing each other. A girl, who I soon realized was the new mom, sat on her bed. My knees almost touched hers. She had her baby bundled up in several thick blankets and held him with a confidence earned through many, many hours of watching younger siblings. Yet even though she held her chin firm and “shushed” confidently, she didn’t look like a mom. She looked like a child. Her dark hair was slung into a low ponytail that hung down to her waist. She was dressed in sweatpants with grey-stained knees and a sweatshirt with sleeves that weren’t quite long enough.
Call Me Mandy 