Snipets Of Daily Life

"It's no wonder that truth is stranger than fiction. Fiction has to make sense."
 - Mark Twain


From the backseat of a taxi, waiting at a red light, I see a man without hands walking between the cars. Using the stubs of his arms, he carries an open bag, asking for change by simply pointing it towards the car windows. No verbal or written words are required. Before I can reach for my purse or open the window, the light changes, and I am drawn away.



The 18th-month-old baby girl in Casa Adalia sits on the floor and wails. I reach down, lift her up, but she struggles angrily against me, twisting and crying. She wants whatever wrong was done in her mind to be made right, wants her mom to come and undue this injustice. Yet as I hold her, she drops her head slowly against my shoulder. With a sigh she wraps an arm around my neck and holds on. We stand there in silence, holding on, breathing, and being okay.



"Quieres jugar conmigo?"
Janoah's brown eyes are wide and expectant.
"Que quieres hacer?" I reply, and she takes my affirmative reply that yes, I will play with her, takes my hand, and leads me to the couch which is transformed by make-believe into a home. I am the mother and she is the daughter, and I take her to school and buy a cake for her birthday. Then she is the mother, tucking me gently into bed.
"Tu estas dormiendo," she informs me, and as instructed, I close my eyes in pretend sleep. She smiles, planning the next part of grown-up life she will walk through in make-believe.



Parking cars is the family business: bright orange vests are worn by the wife, the husband, and draping down over the knees of the son and daughter. They direct the traffic in front of the church, helping cars parallel park or back out along the narrow neighborhood street. I walk down the sidewalk to Casa Gabriel and see the daughter, swallowed in the huge orange vest. I smile at her and she drops her eyes, dark hair falling across her face. Her hands are tiny, yet even so, they can help direct traffic; she on one side of the street and her mother or father on the other.