The Meadow 37 The Dusty Road Suzanne O’Connell Nothing happens in the town where I live. Almost true. Señor Segundo’s horse did smell something once. It ran down the main road out of town. And I won the Lotería with the El Melón card. My prize, a box of guavas. Also, little Felicia fainted one Easter on the church pew. Her new hat fell to the floor. I live with Grandma and Brother. Grandma is on a dusty road of forgetting. “Mijo, what day it is?” We make potato tacos for sale. She slices the potatoes thin. Fries them in hot oil. Sprinkles on hot peppers and salt. Wraps them in tortillas. My job is to roll them in thick paper. My brother, who they say at school is slow, answers the door and yells, “Cliente!” “What day it is, mijo?” Grandma asks as I collect the pesos at the door. “What day it is, mijo?” Grandma asks. “It’s Sunday, Grandma.” On Sundays we take a blanket to the stream. We bring potato tacos and checkers. We watch the bugs and birds play over the stream as the sun, an orange bird, sweeps the sky. I don’t mind that nothing happens. I am happy enough.
RkJQdWJsaXNoZXIy ODQ3NA==