The air smelled salty and ancient. The street smelled coffee.

The young woman across my house must have been the one who gave

birth to Jesus. I lived at the bottom of the street. I went to Mazatlán to

meet my Stepmom and start my 3rd grade. The following day I went to

the store at the upper end of the street. That same day in the afternoon

I fought my first friend on the block. We used to go along with the

other kids to the beach. Mazatlán was a big town. Not too much traffic.

Innocence somehow wasn’t as polluted. I walked barefoot and shirtless.

Went fishing with a 30 foot line and several hooks and shrimp bait.

The dock was four blocks down the street. Due to persistent rain, plants

abounded all over. Even from wall cracks. Huge large dark green

leaves. There was this old woman we called Mama Lola who lived mid

way up the street. She was short and have a bent back. Her place

smelled damp. Her last bath probably had taken place God know when.

But the aroma in her house was pure. As her eyes. Her hands now

looked frail and parched with liver spots. But her touching was warm.

She was kind and have a pleasant voice. That of an old singing bird.

I loved my school. There were palm trees all over. Remember the

Principal. Tall handsome man. He addressed us on our first day at

school. With one of Souza’s beautiful March. I used a quill and green

ink. Remember the smell of my notebook. Remember the entire

classroom. Walking back home. That’s all I did. School. Going to the

beach. Fishing. Reading comic books. Looking at Jesus’s mother.

Fighting the kids in the block. Eating fish a lot. A full Sybarite.

Until the day we went back to Guadalajara.

EO