The day has rolled along in the laziest of manners, hours of school melting away even before the morning yawns have subsided. As the final bell rings, and my notes are tucked away and my bag is packed and my iPod queued for the walk, I step out into the sunny day of southern Spain. The lackadaisical mantra of this place guides my walk along the coast. What is supposed to take thirty minutes usually turns into forty-five under the beating sun. But finally, as I feel the sweat beads slowly slide their way down my back, I have made it home.
I stand in front of the black rod-iron gate that weakly guards the tiny patio of this home. As I fiddle to find my keys (always hidden in the depths of my school bag), my eyes meet the laundry that hangs from the second-story. My madre has washed my clothes today, and the wisps of white and yellow and pink clothes bob up and down with the ever-so-slight breeze of the day. Still fiddling with the lock, my eyes move farther up the wall of the building and into the second-story window. Inside I can see my madre dancing from the living room into the kitchen, smile across her face and serving spoon in her hand. There are heads sticking up above the lowest part of the window; the whole family is over for lunch, the house is alive and buzzing.
As I turn the key in the lock a satisfying click resounds in the air. The streets are empty (everybody in the neighborhood is home having lunch right now); the click of the lock opening is loud. I walk inside the building, up the two flights of cement stairs, and up to door number two. The wooden door is open, the must have been waiting for me.
I walk inside my home. I am greeted immediately: my one-year-old host brother, Samuel, yells my name in the loudest cackle of joy; my six-year-old host sister, Marta, cries hello in defiance of the ever-burdening task of eating; my other host siblings rise out of their chairs and come kiss me; my madre shouts her excitement of my arrival home (I am late, and I blame the beautiful walk and the heat). I throw my things on one of the blue couches, and take my shoes off. The lights are off in the room (much too hot to have lights on), and the cool linoleum of the living room is refreshing on my sweaty feet. I mosey over to the small children and kiss each of them twice on the cheeks. I look around: the television on, the fan on, the olive oil singing bursts of activity from the kitchen, my madre in her apron, my stomach rumbling in the thought of her food, my tongue spewing Spanish phrases I didn’t know I had in me. There is laughter. There are tears. There is raw truth in this place. (En la calle García de Sola, Número 28, Segundo a la derecha.) This is my family, this is my home.
We eat. We feast. And afterwards, when things have calmed and people have left and it is just my madre and me, I clear the table. She stands in the kitchen in her terry-cloth apron and purple gloves that she wears to wash the dishes. I put all of the un-eaten scraps of food on one plate (knowing full-well that she will comment on the waste that was, in some way or another, bless her heart, my fault), stack the delicate white plates on top of one another, and bring them into the kitchen. She laughs and tenderly slaps my butt as I wiggle my way past her (always fun and games, me and this new mother of mine). All of the glasses (each filled with its own remnant of what once was: water, coca-cola, zumo, cerveza, sangria) are stacked, all of the utensils are shoved inside of one, and it is all brought into the kitchen. The television is still on, and we both run in front of it when something exciting appears (especially something regarding the news of the girl that was kidnapped and murdered last week; the country mourns for her as if she was, and she is, kin). Leftovers, beverages, plates of the fruit that we have eaten for dessert, are brought in and set on the kitchen table. I grab each corner of the table cloth, fold it like an envelope, and open the window. Outside sway the pieces of clothing that I once looked at from below, those sweet morsels of cloth that my madre has so tenderly washed. I shake the tablecloth out the window, emptying it of all evidence of lunch. It gets folded and tucked into the drawer under the television. I return to the table and put the white cloth on top of it, the lace cloth on top of that, and the green plant on that. My madre is still in the kitchen suds-ing and washing away. I kiss her cheek, give her a tight squeeze, and walk down the hallway towards my bedroom. “¡A dormir!” she shouts in her strong and loving voice, “To bed!” School and lunch are done for the day, and in the wallowing heat I tuck myself in for a long afternoon nap. This home is good. Oh, how I miss this home.
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