darning holes

Traveling rekindles gratitude. For the little things we often overlook. Pillows. The color of real coffee. Clean socks. Free water. The love of strangers. Children’s dirty hands.

A steep cobbled street turns sharply off the main road. I follow it and climb until the rocks turn to soil beneath my feet and the path stops at a large flat patch of grass. The children see me and come running. Gringa! As if they’ve never seen one before. There are many and no adults to be seen. They are beautiful, with horribly crooked teeth and giant smiles, eyes both bright and dark, and tiny mud-creased fingers that reach out for anything I have.

Que es este? I ask. Un parque?

No. They all laugh. El campo.

Then it is their turn. Where are you going—always the first question. Just passing. Just walking. Here. Next my name, my age, where I’m from, am I married, do I have a boyfriend, a picture, a dollar? What do my bracelets mean? What is my religion? What is in my bag? Can I see?

I take their pictures and show them how they look. I wonder if they’ve ever seen themselves like this before—in an instant of frozen color. It seems like magic and they want more: one with the baby, one with mi primo, one with the flower.

They ask me to play futbol and everyone giggles as I jog across the rugged grass and stumble on the rocks. I kick the ball once, and my shoe flies off. I missed the goal. I bow. They burst out laughing. Then we fly kites. Thin pieces of plastic scraps held together by straws. I can’t get mine to stay in the air so I ask them to show me how. They are so proud to teach me, though no one else can make it fly either really. Good job, I tell them. They take turns. They take care of each other, the older ones holding the babies on their backs, giving them the ball.

It’s time to go; the dark clouds of late afternoon are coming in. They ask when I’ll return. I don’t know what to say. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe not. I never lie to children. But even without promises, they ask me to come back with little gifts. To make one girl a flower for her hair like the one I wear. Another asks for a piece of candy. A little boy wants shoes.

I decend back from neverland into the city below. The colors of peeling paint on cracked cement buildings are a strangely overwhelming beauty. Red flowers grow out of ruddy brown ceramic tile roofs, but only on certain homes, and I wonder why they chose just these. The flowers, not the people. A stray dog sleeps in a doorway, and his muddle clotted coat and mustard fur match the backdrop. A bicycle with two flat tires sucking along the street. Black hat, black sweater and spectacles knocking on a door. Twisted tree framed by crumbling walls. Women in woven cloth balancing baskets and bolsas overhead. Se vende tortillas.