Thursday: "Food"
(Sorry if my story does not fit, but came back to me and stepped back over forty years to tell this true story)
wipes the sweat with a handkerchief of grass while frightened the children who, curious, stuck his nose into his belongings while he downloaded and mounted the guaytomas. Old and faded
cribs revolved claim until someone decided to buy a ticket.
Each year filled the square of colored and we went to get in line to be the first to fly beyond the acacia trees.
From my window I could see the makeshift home he rode to the back of the ride, a house with four ply, four bars where the bed stood under it, a bowl and a cardboard box with her clothes. A infiernillo oil and two cooking pots, a carbide lamp for lighting, dog blanket, trumpet and a mirror.
dinner the first night of poor charity of neighbors. I saw how cut a piece of bacon on a Morrongo of bread and the few crumbs of licking the dog, brown and skinny, tied to my fence.
In the morning, was heard, even sleepy, the melody of his trumpet to alert the street.
In my table was a bowl of warm milk, oil cake, some fruit, honey and chocolate black. On his desk, zurrapa roasted barley, scraps of rancid butter smeared on the bark that hard.
I was anything but hungry ...
children called him "Tarari."
The twists and turns of life. Guaytoma battered in the street of my memory.
