The Little Things

I continued back to the bus stop after having visited seven stores looking for juice with no added sugar. I am on the brink of falling ill and don’t want to lower my immune system. No luck. As I approach the station, I see a couple sitting happily on the broken street cart. The shade covers them in cool as they sip juice from a 1 liter styrofoam cup. A red straw to red lips. “Puchica man!” Where did you get that juice? I’ve been looking all over!” The man cracks a smile, happy to see an expressive and friendly gringo slinging streed words. “Ah, he passed on a bike, and, ya, he’s gone. But here, have mine” He points to his wife’s. Gringo minds don’t work this way. It isn’t part of the White Picket North American Dream. A new possibility of being is exposed in this moment of hopsitality. Compared to them, I dance and prance in glitter, yet the years have taught me that this doesn’t matter. Often, in fact, the more poor one is, the more ready they are to give. I am humbled, embarrassed, and thankful. I remember why I came here.
– Joseph Bornstein