How To Become An Immigrant
In my childhood, I spent several months in a given year in Zaragoza. The day usually started just when the sun rose, with Mami Rosa and me feeding the chickens and I sitting at the kitchen table while Mami Rosa began to make breakfast for us, distinct aromas filled the kitchen of meat, frijoles, tortillas, and herbs. When breakfast was ready, usually my uncle or my aunt and cousin would join us, but other times it was the two of us. While eating our breakfast Mami Rosa told me of the news, she had heard about in town or what gossip was circulating in the village. Mostly I just listen to her voice and laughter that would bring a smile to my face.