Finally, the weather is turning. There’s enough of a breeze that my boots and scarves are functional, instead of purely aesthetic. The boys zip up their jackets as we walk to school, the air just brisk enough to feel alive.
I try to walk as much as possible, because it makes me feel like a thread in the town’s fabric. There’s a family who basically live on their front patio–they eat, rock their baby, sweep the patio, and play cards. All day long they are there, and without fail, I say hello, and they reply, calling me, “Hija“–daughter, or “girl.”
I observe the progress of a house, its evolution from dirt, to plaster walls, to tiled patio. Each morning, the men smoke and talk as the concrete churns, and then they work.
Dogs meander, crossing the streets only at the crosswalk, as Spanish dogs do. Groups take their coffee and toast, as the shop-owners pull up the shades and set out their wares.
I smell fresh bread as I pass Dany’s panaderia.
And on Monday, I saw this:
Freshly sprayed graffiti, close to my kids’ school. And I pondered the story. A love-sick man, enraptured by his lady’s eyes, or the scent of her hair?
Another mystery, another layer.