El Chamizal

He would run barefoot down Paisano St. toward his nieghborhood, called El Chamizal because the tall grey-green Chamiso plant still grew in this part of town, where the grey cinder block houses didn't have running water but alma y corazon were plentiful. The river surrounded his neighborhood on three sides, just like a big American hug, welcoming and promising. There, mama would be making tortillas by the glare of a bare light bulb. The side to side slap of the dough in her hands was like a metronome of childhood memory. A few years later the new projects in the second barrio seemed like a dream, residents could borrow the lawn mower once a week! Here the sidewalks were not broken, there was a real lawn and street lights. The best part of course was that Marcelino, his best friend, lived down the hall. Time and again a new roof would signal a new start. Until the American dream became a reality in the suburbs; his very own lawnmower now occupied the other spot in the two car garage. But no matter where he ever was, the barrio, in the barracks, or on Main Street, it was never home until the tortillas came off the flame, hot, crispy and familiar.