Gera and I went grocery shopping Friday. Our grocery list: milk, cilantro, onion, tomatillas, jalapenos, tilapia, avocados, bread, brown eggs, cream, orange juice, red wine, limes, tortillas, fajita meat, bananas, zucchini/squash, toilet paper, taleras, toothpaste, yogurt, carrots, beans, freso cheese, water, lotion and epazote. Most of the time we plan meals, but this spree was random and even though we had a list, we weren't sure what we would have for dinner. I said ceviche; he said fajitas. We ended up making tortas!
The bad part about living and shopping for food in Texas is that you bend--all the way. I went down one aisle, Gera down another. Shortly, we met up at the meat section. I wanted to die! Lo and behold he had in his hand a big old gigantic piece of pigskin (chicharon). I said, "Nu-uuh, we're not eatin that! Who's gonna eat that?" He started to smile. I said, "I'm for real." He said, "Calmate Morena!" He calls me black girl (morena) when I get worked up. But seriously----the pigskin was humongous--BIG!--. We go to the van; he opened the bag, broke off a big piece, crunched and crunched. Looked at me. Crunched some more and dared me to take a bite. I have to admit, I love skins--I used to freak out my best friend, Tracy, eating bags from time to time. She would say, "That shit's nasty!" She wouldn't touch that kind of food to save anybody's life. But I did love skins then and I do love skins now we just don't buy them--and because Texas runs too deep in my blood, I bent. All the way. I broke off a small piece, then another, then another. Of course the entire time, I was thinking this can't be good for me, this can't be good for Gera, this is so damn good, but it can't be good for my heart, for his arteries, it can't be good for anything. But the flavor and the crunch and the light greasy taste, the salt--wow! I couldn't help myself. We did well, though because we never finished the bag. We probably won't do that again for at least another year. I hope!
It's May 2012 and nothing has changed since November.11. I am all smiles at my relationship and myself. My honey and I continue to amaze each other on a daily basis. We're still ever so 'in' with each other. I completed my MA in literature last May and I'm teaching four college English courses to really smart students. I am hopeful to enter a doctorate program soon. This way, I can run out.All is scary good.
upon hearing your voice life again expands like moon crest like pomegranates swell to the sun and you are patient because god calls
when he came for you this morning you were bent into the flower bed singing black hymns so he left you alone until this third afternoon but even then he found you elbow deep in jewel weed with a mouthful of figs from a nearby tree again he waited because each time seemed to him an inconvenience and a wrong moment
and it was your persistent humming that drove him up and back until he could get his timing perfect he waited another day or so until
your gardening tools rest into porch corners your paring knife shines deeply into a drawer your hair comb lies slanted in a shoebox your wedding band hides in the mattress your fishing rod stays stolen
the sound of your voice desires to sing or hum but this time is perfect he has covered you like lavender-colored silence but he has also added streaks of olive green and pink because this is what the other soul-folk has told him to do and he has become tired in the process and therefore begins to rush sonances of your body he finds you the least complex when you are not outdoors digging in that garden, humming hymns and thriving and for a moment he questions his own timing its perfection and everything goes accordingly until he finds you have buried fruit peels and wandering jew petals underneath your back this does not anger him but it tilts his agility to deliver you and in his own questioning and presence of smells that he cannot privilege all this over powers his choice all this reels his otherwise perfection into letting you go
when i see you sitting in the plush squares of limitless St. Augustine your eyes are lit like crystal warmed soil releases from each of your hands
how did i get to this point this point of knowing you for you are nearly a century old