De Nada

The more I wriggled it, the more the splinter sank into my soft un-calloused finger. I stuck the offending digit into my mouth and sat, taking in the sturdy, grey cinder block houses rolling over the low hills. Below me, a mother hung dripping wet laundry from a large red washing vat and two naked children played in the leftover soapy water, splashing each other and giggling with glee. A dusty pickup piled high with succulent watermelons trundled up the dirt road, blaring tinny mariachi music from its speakers. The heat pressed down on me, a dry, sizzling blanket. Smells drifted lazily into my nose from the still air: the stink of the trash heaps, sawdust from beams being cut in the yard, the sharp scent of laundry soap, and the mouthwatering smell of frying fish coupled with the tang of freshly chopped chilies. My stomach growled and I felt a tap on my shoulder. Mr. Perez was standing next to me, his wrinkled hands holding a weathered hammer with practiced ease. The deep grooves around his eyes crinkled in hidden amusement when he saw the finger in my mouth. He held out a rough hand and I surrendered the splinter to his deft fingers. In a moment it was gone. With a smile he helped me to my feet. “Mucho gracias." My Spanish was clumsily and I felt like marbles were rolling around in my mouth. If Mr. Perez was offended, he didn't show it, only helped me pick up the beam and showed me where to put my hands as he nailed it into place with sharp strokes, his hammer never falling anywhere but the the nail. We moved to the next plank and with a twinkle in his brown eyes he handed me the hammer. The sturdy wood I had washed cars and sold cookies to help buy vibrated and bounced as I struck everywhere but my target. Mr. Perez’s rich, kind laugh echoed as he finished the nail with one tap. "Gracias." I said, blushing under my sunburn. "De nada." the wiry man said as we moved on to the next plank of his new house I had driven over 500 miles to build, "Is nothing."