No photo could ever capture all that is contained within that tin-wall, double-bench, tarp-covered comedor we call Maria's. I did my best tonight, and would be content if I never took another. These tables are my every day, these faces are family, these friends are true love, and these moments are everything.
We stacked benches on the stove and shelves, washed dishes with wet hands and cold air, and locked your tin windows with wire. I kissed yours and your daughters cheek, hugged your brother and your sons, waved goodbye, and wished as I have before, that I could swallow your poverty as you have mine. I bit my lip and turned my head, you walked that way, and I walked this...
We were three worlds, both in one world, pondering if bridges could ever unify our roads. So you made dough and lit a stove, and I poured coco-cola; and together we sang hallelujah from our island world, and called it home.
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