Pedro and I crept closer. The boat was the most beautiful thing we’d ever seen. It was like something out of the magical stories our Abuela loved to tell us, making us long for something more than our small house with its two rooms and dirt floors and view that never changed.
Mamá and Papi never missed a chance to tell us how lucky we were to have a solid roof over our heads and we knew it, most of the time. Some of our friends had it worse and some of them had it better. There wasn’t much jealousy among us, since the whole village seemed to share so much anyway.
Last year, our friend Tomás had received a football for his birthday, from some rich relative living up in Mexico City. We’d played with it night and day, and day and night, until the skin was missing on it in huge patches. After that, it disappeared, but I bet Pedro that Tomás now slept with it, hiding it from the rest of us. I don’t blame him–I’d have hidden it to begin with.
Puerto Quetzal was far away from our village, but Pedro and I had heard stories of the boats that came by a few times a month, full of rich Americans and Canadians. We’d left yesterday morning with a couple of mangoes each wrapped in a cloth that we took turns holding. They were gone by this morning and we were hungry, but it was worth it. My empty stomach was simply no match for my overjoyed heart.
©2015 All Rights Reserved