Vending in Verano

Foto de tamales por: Teresa Puente

With the loose gravel
under our feet, my cousin and I
sat on the cracked sidewalk.
Her voice rang shrill and words spilled quick, like birdsong, as she taught me how to tuck the chunks of masa
into the tree leaves we gathered
to prepare our inedible meal.
We compacted the bundles tightly and baked them in the sun that blared down on our necks.

“¡Tamales!” we cried out to anyone
that might hear us on those unpaved roads outside Abuelito’s maroon house. But only the ants congregated at our sides—like people in the plaza, at the beckon
of the bells, ready for mass—and waited for their turn to receive our blessed gifts.

The frilled edges
of my pink skirt collected dust
as we dirtied our hands
and cooked for no one
but the birds and stray dogs— playing pretend on street corners like my parents once did
in that pueblito they called home.