The house smells of bacon and piñon. I went out into the yard and split farolitos while Zeke cleaned, stuffed, and wrapped jalapeños in the humid kitchen. The two cases of beer are out on the Western porch getting cool. In a few minutes we’ll walk next door for the Superbowl party at neighbor Juan’s, the house my parents owned and sold to him last summer.
The Condenados will be there–the unrelated family to which I belong and which has taken in Zeke naturally, effortlessly. The spirit of adoption is strong here. It is no wonder our Morada is dedicated to Saint Joseph.
I’ll hear mostly Spanish today. There will be Norma’s lilting ‘manito, Dabo’s crisp, ironic Castiliano, and Zeke’s own rapid, brutal Mojado. There will be lots of Spanglish too, and Lenny (“Leño” when we’re stress-relieving) will invent some new verbs. “Fuquiar” was last week’s addition to our vernacular.
The Walmart chocolate cheese cake we bought is entirely consumed in the fourth quarter, Lenny tells Zeke and I to lock arms and share eachothers’ dessert. He’s drunk (we all are) and he urges us to “never change.”
May I always be tender to you, Ezequiel.
© Tasso 2000