Independence Day

The night was misted rain, like fading laughter to the story teller. Passing stray dogs, I overstepped torn open trash bags, styrofoam, and cracked chicken bones. Mexico scored first, and three more times from different angles, within the thirty seconds it took me to sidewalk from the corner convenient store to the first pupuseria. I pictured the guard at the gate spilling his red beans in celebration all over his booth, or onto the six inch television he and his girlfriend stared into as I left the community. Conscious of the darkness, I sunk both hands into my jacket pockets, and enabling my upturned head and squared shoulders to pretend confidence, continued up the road until half-time. I crossed the road, finding the gate of 'El Mirador,' and escorted by my aloneness, proceeded, as would a bride, to the railing overlooking San Salvador. Two couples, disengaged to the eleven of us others, kissed church bells into the view.

I didn't get fireworks on the fourth of July, but I did get two million lit up kitchen windows. I do.