tortilla flats

Rosa was frying the beans for breakfast and cracked a few eggs into the other pan. She turned on the front burner and reached into the plastic sack of flour tortillas to serve with breakfast. The tortilla flipped onto the blue flame and lay still for a second, then began to smoke and char at the edges. Rosa whisked the tortilla over to char the other side, stirred the beans, flipped the eggs, swayed back and forth because her lower back ached already and she hadn't even started her day.

She called her boys to the table, Jose, Mario, Innocente, Aurelio, Domingo, her chicito mas lindo, dulcecito, guerito: Angelito, gone north to San Francisco and in some trouble, despite his angel's face, she could tell. No calls for months, no letters, but word from her cousin that he was doing all right, working, maybe. She couldn't tell long-distance, and she wished for her Angel back, but he did not come.

Another tortilla on the fire, quick smoke, flip and char, whisk it to the basket. Stir the beans, flip the last egg, screech for the boys one more time. The coffee boiled in the pot on the back burner. She pulled the next tortilla from the bag.

Dios Santo, Santa Maria.


His Face. His Precious Face.

"Imelda, Maria!" She screamed for her daughters who were pinning up their long brown hair. "Come, come now! Daughters, come now! -- hurry yourselves!" The teens clattered into the kitchen in their blue uniforms and shiny shoes.


"!Mira! Jesus -- on the tortilla, look." Imelda, 17, looked at her mother and gave her a half-mad smile. She just stood there and stared at her mother. Ridiculous girl! But 13-year-old Maria blessed herself and knelt next to the stove. She began to pray the Ave Maria, and Rosa didn't know what to do -- the beans were smoking, the eggs drying, the coffee boiling, but the Ave, she had to pray. She turned off all the knobs and knelt beside her younger daughter.

Santa Maria, Madre de Dios, Ruega para nosotros ahora y en la hora de nuestra muerta, Amen...

On they went. They said it ten times, and then "Padre Nuestro..." and then what next? She couldn't think. The food was overcooked, the boys pushed into the kitchen demanding breakfast and asking what happened, why are you on the floor, de rodillas, Mama? Can I have my eggs now, Mama, can I have my lunch, my coffee, and can I have that tortilla?

"No, my son, don’t touch the holy thing. I must call Padre, I must tell him.” Rosa wiped her hands, spooned out breakfast, then pushed her hair into some sort of shape. Must call Padre, must call the Church. It’s a miracle!

The tortilla curled, charred and dry, on the cooling stove. The brown and black burn marks that formed the slub and shadow of Our Lord Jesus seemed to radiate and burn her very retinas. Rosa found a clean plastic bag, slipped the holy tortilla inside it, zipped the bag shut and took it to lay on their bedroom altar. She dipped her hand into the stoup next to the mirror on the dresser, and blessed herself with holy water, water from the shrine at Fatima. She prayed again to Our Blessed Mother. Thank you, Maria, for this blessing. All saints, Holy Mother of God, Holy Spirit, and Baby Jesus. Blessed Señor, it’s a miracle, it’s a sign. Her Angel would come home. And Jesus, our Lord Jesus Christ, was in the house.

“Santificada sea Tu Nombre...” she prayed.

Rosa buttoned her best sweater on and arranged her gold medallion of the Blessed Mother around her neck. Padre mustn’t see her looking such a mess. The boys and the girls were already out the door walking to school up the hill. Rosa followed them, praying every step. Santa Maria, Madre de Dios.

Christ! On a tortilla in her kitchen! What would the Padre think of her now?

Meri says

April

Shopping with kids ...then --

The pains began at 2 a.m. and Meri found herself curling over her already pooched belly, just two months along, and she wondered if she was bleeding yet. She wondered if this was the beginning of the end. God has a will. God has ways. Is this one of them?