Peter’s Tacos in Mexico

 

Peter’s Tacos Gratitude is as close as a memory. Easily reached but difficult to wear. It slips from the shoulders like a red silk shawl on a warm summer’s evening. No one expected me to marry Peter. He stood in his youth, replete with nose ring, long hair and an infinity of color on his arms. My boss said he looked like he beat women. But, he did not. Our honeymoon was delayed in obeisance to childcare for my toddler daughter and teen age son.

Finally, as the car slipped into Mexico, we were on our way. My little red Tercel, with the windows rolled down, gave the day a defiant attitude. My hair streamed in the wind. We drove fast, on the coastal road. Unfinished, but well intentioned resorts were background to the great magnificent ocean. The water shouted its complete chorus to the open arms of the shore. A huge glistening sky listened with sun lit warmth. When we reached the little hotel, it was a white man’s palatial home. The detritus of his new career as a writer, littered his magnificent living room. Books and papers scattered across his desk and floor in jubilant abandon. An entire wall was glass and waves reached up in vain attempts to enter. Dressed in Khaki, he leased spaces; he consumed clear tequila. Another couple were there, from our town. They, too, were newly wed. At La Bufadora, we watched the shooting spout of sea caress the sky, then fall back, in rainbows. The road we walked on, was lumpy brown dirt. Other couples passed us, but we were oblivious.

We drank the requisite beer for breakfast and headed to the taco stand. The Stand was a large tarp, spread over a grill. It seemed to be fashioned from spare car parts and old refrigerator shelves. As we stood, waves of warm, meat flavored, smoke rose in the air and mingled with sweet, saucy, spicy, tortilla smells. The grill spoke in sizzles. Peter ordered our tacos. I nursed the tiniest bit of doubt. Had I done the right thing? Was this marriage a road to lead upwards? Peter, received the first taco and then with consummate grace he turned to the beggar child at his elbow. In sweet, solemn communion, he handed the taco to the boy. The smile they exchanged will live forever.

Without warning, the boy leaped into the air. Laughing and shouting, the ragged five year old disappeared around the stalls and bright displays. Then, before we could eat, and as our mouths filled with anticipation, the boy reappeared. In his wake were twenty more small boys. All wore rags. All were wan. Peter reached in his pocket and gave the cook all his money. I watched as Peter dispensed tacos to each child. Some ate more than two. Some ate more than three. The streets of Mexico surrounded us. People shouted out prices for well made leather goods and name brand imitations. Small stalls supported sparkling perfume bottles and dresses with brilliant flowered embroidery.

The beers squatted beside an infinity of bottles of rum. Sandals and pop guns competed with topaz and opal. The day buzzed in my head. The air smelled like candy and meat. The people all seemed to smile and worry was not an issue. Pineapple and coconut drinks beckoned from small carts. Everywhere, the blue sky waved tiny decorative clouds. As they ate, the children made noises like happy birds at a well stocked feeder and I lifted up my heart felt thanks, to heaven.

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