That August night is saved in my mind,
How the sun had set and voices rode the air,
And mariachis and their traditional songs from Veracruz
Strolled everywhere
Sharing the beauty of their syncopated rhythms –
The melodic solos of trumpet, violin, and guitar
Rising and falling over the repetition of vihuela and guitarró.
Gasoline lanterns swayed in the breeze
From the lower branches of apricot trees.
And pit fires crackled, keeping mosquitoes away,
Illuminating the yard with the staccato of orange-red.
That night a fiesta for Alicia Marie Sanchez’s
Fifteenth birthday –
With picnic tables of enchiladas, tamales, rice, and beans.
She, the daughter of the orchard owner, Esteban.
Me, a sixteen-year-old migrant worker.
I strolled around the fringe of people,
Keeping in the shadows of trees and apricot cutting places,
Keeping out of the sputtering lantern light.
Night air summer-warm against flushed face
And carrying with it the smoky pine scent of copal.
The music stopped
And Esteban bounded to tabletop,
Waving hat above head
(face shining orange-red from firelight),
Hushing people as they fed
(toasting his daughter’s special night).
At once rose up glass and cheer.
And from instruments sprang music anew.
“Olé!” shouted the guitarró player.
People encircled Alicia Marie,
Encouraging her with rhythmic clapping
To dance the zapateado.
She clasped hands behind
Red dress trimmed in plastic pearls
And drove heels into dirt,
And danced a circle
(long black hair swooshing and swirling).
Then seeing my chance
I leapt into the circle with Alicia Marie.
And before moment could wane
We danced shoulder to shoulder.
And when I leaned into her, I could not refrain
From saying, “Will you marry me?”
*******
Previously published in: i) The World According To Goldfish; ii) Shalla Magazine
