La Pulga

Sunday morning strolls along the frontage roadlike a censer-swinging priest, scrapes its sunlightagainst the corroded chainlink fence, betweenthe lines of traffic overflowing from the entrance,where I already taste the scent of wet cilantro,grilled onions, mixed meat, and eggs sizzled in a hazeof dust-shuffled heat; in a blanket of black exhaustcrawling across the pothole-riddled parking lot,and through the rows of sunburned cars nudgingeach other like buzzards on a corpse they’ve yetto eat. I endure my grandfather’s crooked parking,the constant honking, the back-seat acoustics of thinmusic sprinkled in the air, those far-off plasticspeakers blaring songs with unpredictable trumpets,and Spanish gritos slapped against my English-only ears.Even if that language isn’t mine, I attempt to translatehow I’m witnessed through every detail in this scene:the light-skinned boy walking hand-in-hand withhis mud-brown grandparents, weaving through labyrinthsof two-dollar sock bundles, cases of tomatoes, strawberries,knock-off DVDs, and mountains of used car parts ripewith rust and unreliability, where my grandfather stops,scans the price-tags for discounts, then moves us alongbefore the vendors stare long enough to make me believeI’ve been kidnapped from the suburbs, that my grandparentsare here to parade their new prize around. And yet,as we carve our presence farther in, as I imaginemy grandparents on the other end, watching as I leave,I begin to feel I’m the one who’s kidnapped them,softly tugging their clay bodies through a marketthey’ll never see again; a weekend life rememberedonly by the netted sacks of garlic bought, piledlike wreaths across the back seat where I laymy head to rest; tired, thirsty, and ready to leadthese strangers to a better home.