“The world is as big or small as you make it.”
– JDV, Jr
A thought erupts in a writer’s mind shattering the mile-a-minute standard and readers are given a window seat. The scenes are varied from topic and taste while nostalgia plays favorite.
Science and Industry Museum Circa ’90s, Windy City
Those trips were a budgeted spoil- I never knew if I deserved it. Plastic corner store bags swollen with chips, glazed apple or cherry pies from the stale beige metal store shelves, Mami-made sandwiches (she added lettuce and tomato with the mayo), Sunny D bottles (that’s how you knew Pa had just got paid), and a napkin because Mami always made sure of cleanliness. She never wanted to depend on other people to keep her kids fresh. Smellin’ like Johnson & Johnson soap bopped with baby powder and lotion. Cigarette scented kisses grazed me thanks to pa’s bigote. I was messy as hell and never cared about appearance because at that time, my eyes were taking in the newness of history through doe-like pupils averted toward the fun of old cold Chicago. Gary had Marquette Park while the windy city had weird science and various culture. I recall the entrance where we had to wait and make sure we could afford the fee. The simulated mine shaft ride into the tunnel stands out. What also stands out is my disdain for it. I remember metal clanks through the smell of dank while wheels groan. I felt old in my young body expecting to have been put to work alongside my dad at the end of all this— silly me, I’ve sillily spilled a drink on the seat. Now my jeans are sticky as our sinking’s complete. Industrious engineers speak while my fingers stink of slimy sweet Sunny D. The dinosaur exhibit only lasts but a blink until the tracking in my mind slow winds to a stop, soon swishing past closely built homes hidden in veins of trees with light post auras. We pull away from the frigid stone building standing four pillars proud with a white and grey sky to brighten the backdrop.
No Llores – Circa ’91 to Now
As a child I hated when he wasn’t in the home. A few times I cried myself to sleep thinking he was gone. Looking back on it, that must have been annoying for my older brother to deal with. Me too young to understand that Pa had to step away from his own, working to help other kids. Instead, my selfishness knew nothing of what it was really like to be fatherless at home. At a certain point we all grew comfortable speaking our piece and respecting the need for none of it now and again. I’ve grown a little more accustomed to distance, while my Pops pops up in random spots around the globe. Even though he isn’t close, I feel I have a better understanding of his soul. He’s peaceful now and the energies are different. I can tell he must’ve hated stepping away back then by the way he hugs me when he sees me now.
Ninguno Esta Mal – Current day
From the birth of Gabriel to the Straight of Gibraltar, my father and I have similarities yet differ (I’m sure we’ve all come to this cross road with ourselves). For example, this year the only travel I’ve done has been mental, thumbing through thoughts trying to find specific details that double as fruits of pa’s labor (a.k.a. making sacrifices to give us what we never knew he never had at our age). Meanwhile, he’s just made his way through the Iberian Peninsula and North Africa. I look forward to seeing him in seven days post flight when he arrives in LA. It’s interesting how we’re witnessing each other’s private life develop differently at distances- me aloud, he in silence. The modern family dynamic is changing and I wonder how often my ancestors shared this sentiment?
Many Last Thoughts
We sit here trying to recreate the youngest smiles of boys who mock smirks from their fathers in photo comparisons. They were babies raising infants. We were spoiled, spanked and gifted. They were toughened, bruised and blistered, so we got faces wet, wiped with spit. Olden ways, emboldened-raised but humble by our hope and praise. As I think back to the sink baths or how I’d drink charcoal with olive oil, I should’ve known they wouldn’t put up with my shit. A whoopin’ here, a chancla there, because I pushed or hit or pulled at hair.
Un coscorrón for the cabezón…again, I’m sorry if I hurt your knuckles then.
Gabriel AV 
Beautiful writing. You captured the thoughts of many with your reflections of your childhood. Isn’t funny how we don’t realize the sacrifices our parents make for us until we ourselves are grown and on our own. You still have both of your parents right now. Make sure you let them know you are aware of the their sacrifices and thank them! Love you Mijo!