La Bandera - The Flag

Anyone who has spent at least 15 minutes with my oldest son, Benicio, has surely caught on to the fact that he adores flags. He's made us borrow I Witness: Flags from the library the maximum 4 times in a row (on 3 separate occasions). For 3 months straight we had to read this book to him before bed and could recite the introduction on command, completely by memory, and on occasion against our will.

He draws flags, paints flags, comes home from school with flag illustrations all over his work, hangs flags of his own design up all over the house, and as an added bonus can sing the corresponding national anthem of about 7-10 different country flags (thanks YouTube).

We've speculated that his adoration could lead to a career as a foreign diplomat, ambassador, UN representative, or heck -a flag designer. Countries, states, sports steams, special events, and even the rainbow flag - he loves them all. Here's a picture if you don't believe me:

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La Chalupa - The Canoe

The rain persisted. Winter had brought, it seemed, an endless stream of water no one was prepared for, leading eventually to busted dams, overflowing rivers, collapsed roads, and uprooted foundations. Weather conditions mirrored the political climate in so much as torrential opposition increased and all that hope and faith is built on was buckling beneath insurmountable pressure. Tiempo de Aguas , is what my grandma had referred to once when sharing her stories - a time of great rains that brought with it a sense of reckoning. I listened to the beat of the drops, waiting for sleep to come. A humming serenade hitting my roof. A tinny drip-drip-drip syncopation falling from the awning to the medal garden-turtle below. Fatter base-line plops landing carelessly in the water-filled planter closest to my bedroom window. I let the rain spill into my sleep. I awoke to quiet radiance. No more rain, but a sunlight stretched so far it was white, not yellow. My bed wavered beneath me, a gent...

El Violoncello - The Cello

Lucy heard the deep, warm tones of the cello coming from the dining room and quickly turned off her small transistor radio. Not much could tear her away from the seductive rhythms of Mary Wells, Marvin Gaye, The Supremes or her favorite, Smoky. But when her older brother practiced the cello she was transported to distant places that looked nothing like the confined, chipped-painted walls of their home. She didn't know much about classical instruments or any music besides motown and her parents rancheras, but for some reason those low melodic notes made her think of places she saw only on television. She imagined great concert halls bigger than her school auditorium even, where fancy ladies in the audience sparkle with jewels and the musicians wear expensive-looking suits. Her brother, Sal, played on, oblivious to the world around him. She was careful not to let him see her. In the last few months he had grown more irritable, snapping insults at anyone who interrupted his concentrat...

Las Jaras - The Arrows

Do you enjoy a good ghost story? The mystery and wonder of the circumstances. The goosebump-inducing details. Maybe you're a believer who has had an experience of your own - or waiting for that day. Have you considered the underlying sadness that often accompanies these tales of the unexplained? Some believe grief over the loss of a loved one, like an arrow that has pierced through the heart, creates a longing so intense that you call the spirit world to you. Who wouldn't want to see that person once more, feel their presence beside them once more, or willingly go against all rational understanding just to heal the wound for that brief moment? And yet, here is a story about a spirit who doesn't let go. Doesn't it make sense that they grieve, too? A pearl-colored glow dripped from the crescent that hung high against the black felt sky and seeped through the open window of the dark bedroom. It wasn't a noise or even one of those sudden jerks of the leg that ya...

Stories of Lotería

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