New Mexican Mother and Son

New Mexican Mother and Son
 
     The street welcomes us with mariachi under the ghost moon. I pull my son along by his pillowy little hand with my bony fingers. Under the dusk light, the atmosphere is scented with tequila fumes, mixed with a blast of pungent garlic, and onion so strong tears form in my eyes. People weave like yarn in a loom. There the grocery smells like a kitchen where tamales are steamed in a banana leaf with the sweetness of a mother’s love on a summer’s night.      
     He is a cherub whose wings carry him down the aisle past racks of chili peppers. His tiny hands touch the avocados which are the familiar shape of the womb he emerged from. The flesh beneath its skin is like the placenta, which nourished him when he was the size of an avocado seed. The moment is pregnant with God.  
     In one arm is the grocery bag and my other hand tows him along like a Mom and her child in the African savanna from before spoken language. Home greets us with sundown leaving the alleyway haunted by shadows. I cradle Rodrigo in my arms. We both gaze out the window at the lights coming on in our neighbor’s apartments across the alley.  
      He asks, “Why isn’t there green here, like on TV?”  
     I rock him in the quiet of the universe and answer, “Look at the ivy growing in the pot.”
     He reaches up and tweaks my nose. “Mommy, out here it is all yellow.”
     I let him hold my finger while the night steals into my soul. “Honey, you just have to look for the green. It is out there just beyond the city in quiet canyons where deer come to drink.”