The table was high-tech for the time,
aluminum frame and bright yellow plastic,
a sun that never set in the middle of the dining room.
I sat there,
small, innocent,
a boy before the war started,
with a mountain of pinto beans spread out before me.
My job was the sort.
To find the little gray stones, the pebbles of earth
hiding among the food.
Clink, clink, clink into the discard pile.
Watching Grandma Bertha do her magic,
turning hard seeds into sustenance,
boiling, draining,
the heavy, rhythmic sound of the masher
breaking them down.
And then, the shout from the street.
“Chicharron! Chicharron!”
The man with the basket.
Grandpa Johnny would call me over,
his hands scarred from the slaughterhouse
dropping coins into my small, soft palm.
“Run, mijo.”
I’d chase the man down,
trade the coins for the bag of fried pork skins,
and run them back to the kitchen like I was carrying gold.
She’d crumble them in.
The crunch meeting the soft.
And then, the brick.
The massive, pale block of Government Cheese.
She’d slice off a slab the size of a book,
break it into pieces, and fold it into the heat.
Watching it melt. Watching it disappear.
Rich. Thick.
H.Q.
But the meal wasn’t ready. Not yet.
Grandpa would nod. More money. The final mission.
“The store. Go.”
I would sprint down the block to the grocer,
past the dogs, past the fences,
straight to the stack of tortillas.
And I knew the drill. I knew the code.
I didn’t grab the top bag.
I slid my hand deep into the middle of the stack,
searching for the heat.
Gauging the temperature like a bomb technician.
If it burned my knuckles, it was fresh.
If it burned my knuckles, it was good.
I’d grab two bags,
race home, breath in my chest,
and deliver the bounty.
We sat down.
Uncle Brown. Grandpa Johnny. Grandma. Me.
The beans steaming.
The tortillas wrapped tight in a dish towel
to keep the heat of the grocery store alive.
Scooping the mixture,
the salt, the pork, the cheese that came from the state
but tasted like it came from God.
It was heaven.
It was the only heaven I ever really knew.
And if I had to repent,
if I had to relive one sin or one moment
for all of eternity,
it wouldn’t be the sex, or the money, or the wins.
It would be sitting at that yellow plastic table,
picking the rocks out of the beans,
knowing that I was safe,
and that dinner was coming.
