Around the World

When I first laid eyes on him, my heart fell, as though an anchor had been attached to it, dragging it down to the bottom of my stomach.

Parked at a red light in Monterrey, Mexico. Outside, the sun beat down, kissing my cheeks as I sat squished in the back seat of my Abuelo’s – grandfather’s – vehicle. A breeze rustled through the leaves of tall palm trees that lined the roadside, but it was not cool enough to feel refreshing through the half-opened windows. Car horns were honking, salsa music was blaring, and I could smell the delicious scent of pan de dulce – sweet bread – coming from outside. I listened to people shouting to each other in Spanish from the street. Oye, Martine! Hablamé!

I watched a teenage boy run up the car next to us. He was barefoot and his shirt had been tied around his head to shade his neck from the sun. The teenager began to wash the car’s windshield without asking the driver; he poured soapy water over the window, began to scrub and wipe away, scrub and wipe away. I had never seen anyone wash a windshield so fast; he needed to finish the job before the light turned green again.

My seatbelt buckle burned my skin and droplets of sweat formed along my neck and forehead. Some wouldn’t be able to stand the heat, but I loved it.

There was a knock at the driver’s side window. I turned to look. When I laid eyes on him, my heart fell.

I saw a young boy with tousled, black hair; a ripped t-shirt and shorts; nothing covering his calloused feet. His eyes met mine for a brief moment as my Abuelo rolled down his window.

Diner, señor?
Money, sir? He looked about six years old.
A small hand clasped the door where the window had been rolled down, and the other dirt-covered hand held out a piggy bank.

Behind the boy, an older woman sat on the roadside with her back against the trunk of a palm tree, taking refuge from the relentless sun. She wore a long sleeved, white shirt and an ankle-length skirt. In her arms, she held a newborn baby. The family had a total of three belongings to their name, none of which were tangible.

The light turned green as I saw my Abuelo drop a few pesos – coins – into the boy’s piggy bank. Clink! Clink! Clink!

Gracias, señor – thank you, Sir. I watched the boy’s humble hand slip from the windowsill. The car began to roll forward and the mother against the tree smiled sadly as her young son made the sign of the cross on his forehead.

Gracias a Dios, the young child said quietly, sincerely.
Thank you, God.