She was five years old and there she sat holding the tight hand of her mother, Blanquita (little Blanca) on a long, ten-hour bus ride that departed at twelve o'clock, 'pumpkin time'. Off they went to the north end of the pistolita (little gun), because that's what Florida looked like to her.
What could possibly have possessed Mum to yearn for this authentically
novel life full of the highly rumored encouragements for opportunity?
"Let's go back to Mama Gloria's." She wisely advised her mother, as the dark hour kept swallowing the inseparable duo into its undefinable depth. Clearly, this adventure into the crepuscular unknown was unmistakably a very, very bad idea. All Carlita had packed in her suitcase was her daily routine which she had keenly perfected at Grandma's: first, ditching the pre-kindergarten attire upon stepping foot onto the cold tile of the house's entryway; then, a quick lunch or sometimes an even longer lunch if forced to eat pacaya - a very bitter and cynical vegetable; - later, a couple of hours of the old lady's telenovelas; some coloring frenzy; scattered chapters of Machiavellian teasing of Uncle Carlitos (little Charles) - a blessed, little chap with down syndrome - and finally, the anticipation of Mom's return home from her second job at the University, so that she could complete some extraneous playtime. Most of the time though, while too-tired-to-play Mom rested her eyes, little Carla would content herself by puppeteering Mom's index and middle fingers into two miniature businessmen with mustaches who intended to open an apothecary in the more upscale neighborhood.
"Let's go back to Mama Gloria's." She wisely advised her mother, as the dark hour kept swallowing the inseparable duo into its undefinable depth. Clearly, this adventure into the crepuscular unknown was unmistakably a very, very bad idea. All Carlita had packed in her suitcase was her daily routine which she had keenly perfected at Grandma's: first, ditching the pre-kindergarten attire upon stepping foot onto the cold tile of the house's entryway; then, a quick lunch or sometimes an even longer lunch if forced to eat pacaya - a very bitter and cynical vegetable; - later, a couple of hours of the old lady's telenovelas; some coloring frenzy; scattered chapters of Machiavellian teasing of Uncle Carlitos (little Charles) - a blessed, little chap with down syndrome - and finally, the anticipation of Mom's return home from her second job at the University, so that she could complete some extraneous playtime. Most of the time though, while too-tired-to-play Mom rested her eyes, little Carla would content herself by puppeteering Mom's index and middle fingers into two miniature businessmen with mustaches who intended to open an apothecary in the more upscale neighborhood.
But by then, their home seemed a million light years away standing old and decrepit on a grassy hill of San Salvador's soil and hopefully illuminated by a vigilant Spanish moon. This memory and her 360 color crayons was all she carried with her. How could she possibly be prepared for this absolute uncertainty of a place?
Blanquita looked down at her infant and pulled her as close to her bosom, as anyone can enter another being's soul. Fighting her quiver, she attempted to comfort the child until an uncontainable strength within her materialized itself into a phrase: "Where ever you go, there you shall be." She continued, "... and there I will be with you."
.................
This woman was the most stoic form of determination I have ever known in my life. I am blessed she was my mother. Lucky me. That day she put in my suitcase the handiest tool of all.
