They walk in a cluster across the gravel lot
The boy is one of them
He looks like his great-grandfather
With ears just large enough to be distinctive
Not big enough to be a social liability
His head is covered in loose curls
The colors are his father’s
The boy’s skin brown, his curls dark
The shape of his face will become his father’s
Once the baby-ness lifts
It is clear by looking at him who his mother is
Though he does not particularly look like his mother
The boy toddles amongst them, part of the clan
He toddles confidently, in the way a teen boy struts
He is fearless
His moist curls bounce in the desert-like mid-day sun
And the dust that lifts as cars and feet move
Sticks to his sweaty face
The adults stop, preparing to part ways
In the slow way of Mexican families
Soft kisses to the cheek, then one more anecdote
Another round of kisses and goodbyes
One more reminder of an upcoming gathering
More kisses and more goodbyes
In the midst of goodbyes, he notices his shadow
It is behind him, so he turns to face it
It is on the gravel, moving as he is
He chuckles at it and bends to touch it
The shadow disapears, he looks around for it
He is uninterested in the other shadows
He just wants to find his own
Giving up, he stands and it reappears
He swings his arms and watches it imitate him
He moves his hips back and forth and it does too
He giggles delightedly and squats again to touch it
The shadow disappears and he looks less perplexed now
He knows how to get it back
Chilanga Sprinkles 
Leave a comment