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I haven't had much to say of my own lately, especially not writing; but I've decided that the very least I can do is start the spring off with my tiny stories again. They aren't much, but a hundred words or so is better than nothing and it makes me feel like I'm doing something.
Tuxtla
He tells me he is going to Mexico and smiles. I watch his smiles most intently because they are not really smiles at all. They are something else, so full of concealed regret. The only real smiles I ever see from him are when we talk about my children. I ask him where he is going and he tells me Chiapas. There are waterfalls there, I think to myself. I suddenly picture him naked, all belly and scrawny white legs like most men his age. I picture him walking into a waterfall, naked and hopeful that it will be what finally makes him feel clean.
Tuxtla
He tells me he is going to Mexico and smiles. I watch his smiles most intently because they are not really smiles at all. They are something else, so full of concealed regret. The only real smiles I ever see from him are when we talk about my children. I ask him where he is going and he tells me Chiapas. There are waterfalls there, I think to myself. I suddenly picture him naked, all belly and scrawny white legs like most men his age. I picture him walking into a waterfall, naked and hopeful that it will be what finally makes him feel clean.
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