Monthly Archives: January 2013

A pot of stew




A man sways his head and lowers it.

No, Don Francisco. No puedo.”

A callused hand retaining splinters from the night before, hands him the money. He hugs Don Francisco holding back the tears and cries of his heart. He walks away. Don Francisco comes out from behind closed doors and greets his family. He sits on the sofa listening to their day. They laugh retelling the drama of the day, their funny mistakes and the passion in their veins for setting things right. He listens to each of them. He nods and smiles. They never wait for his response, besides he would rather listen.

Donde tu etaba? Que hiciste?” His wife asks from the kitchen between the rising fumes of a well cooked meal.

He shrugs his shoulders. He didn’t do anything important.

From outside through the door glass, a man hands money to his wife, who weeps. She looks up to thank the heavens. She didn’t ask where it came from, she knew.

The next day at Don Francisco’s door, the wife finds a warm pot on the door step. A pasty white fuzzy towel with loose strings rested over it. In the pot a home cooked stew. It was simple with small chunks of chicken.

Ay Dios.” She questions him from where it came. He says nothing. They eat while she comments on the different condiments she would have added to it. He washes the pot and at night, he leaves it by the door with a handwritten note.



Silence speaks greater wisdom if you listen and generosity in secret builds the esteem of the broken-hearted.


Happy Birthday Tio Paco, we love your quiet and generous soul.



The never ending trip


Angry, Frustrated Woman

Every scream affects an individual differently. For one particular individual it unfolds a series of trials. The first scream stuns her, she quickly relies on a quick fix, a soother. It works except it’s not lasting. The second scream she leans forward to search in her bag of tricks any object of interest.  She succeeds but the glory fades. The next scream and she positions the advances of technology for entertainment. The interest held but for a few moments. The preceding scream and the obvious complains come to mind. Perhaps hunger or thirst are the culprits. Each remedy however produces a higher pitch. Blankets, bounces, funny faces could not stop it. She is it. The one she hoped she would never be, the mother with the inconsolable child. At this time she feels the moans of the other passengers, as she pounds her thinking cap for another idea. Nothing would work and she could not control it. Every scream increased her desire to cry and scream herself.

Have you been it too?

The mouth



At first to impress or to continue conversation every bit of detail seems fitting. It speaks with freedom and comfort of all subjects. There is no question about consequences,  nor interpretation. Expressing honesty in its purest form is the only wise choice. There are no restraints when the heart means well.  Then, reason arrives and the words once spoken through the lips of another sound ill. All the secrets become public knowledge. A fool quick to speak becomes the shame of transparency. If only restrains came with the mouth and tongue then regret could not chase another soft heart away.

The Potato Peeler



“Casey can you help me here?”

Casey looks up, closes her computer and stands by the cook. The cook motions to her with her lips to the clump of potatoes on the right of the sink. She holds a chicken leg in her left hand and a knife on the right. Casey looks at the amount of potatoes and sighs.

“It’ll go quick. I just need them peeled for now.”

Casey opens one drawer, rummages through the miscellaneous items and slams it shut.

“How’s work going?”

“Its fine.” Casey keeps looking through other drawers, fanning through them and closing them again.

“That’s good.”

“Where is it?”

“Right here.” With her pinky finger the cook coils it around a slender knife and places it in front of Casey.

“What’s that?”

“The peeler.”

Casey smirks and stares at her with her nostrils flaring.

“Honey, that’s the peeler.”

“This so antiquated, how do you use this thing? Remind me to get you an actual peeler.”

Casey grabs the small knife and hacks at the skin of the potato. Every stoke stabs the potato instead of peeling it. She tries again and cuts chunks of the potatoes with the skin on them. She manages to  finish one potato and rushes to start on the other. The cook watches her while at the same time she dips the chicken legs into her special sauce. Casey slashes through the potato to her own skin. She yells, throws it in the sink and washes her hands. At the front door Miriam arrives with her three kids.

“What happened?”

Casey rushes upstairs holding her finger wrapped in tissue. Miriam removes the coats from the kids sends them off to play, kisses the cook and sees the potatoes.

“Did you get the roof looked at yet?”

“Yes, apparently it was something else. How’s Jimmy?”

“He’s fine, just a small cough.” Miriam peels every potato and washes her hands.

“Mom, Lanny needs to go.”

Miriam answers the call, walking by Casey wrapping a band-aid around her finger. Casey looks at the potatoes peeled. The cook smiles at her, but says nothing. Casey looks for another knife and slices each in silence.