Columns

Someone sent my daughter a picture of my four-year-old grandson eating lunch with a dozen or so of his fellow pre-schoolers. They’re sitting at a long table, all dressed in the identical white shirts and grey pants or grey jumpers that are the required school uniform.

Who would have thought I’d find myself watching out for tigers on my walks around my Mexican neighborhood. 

I always envy the houses I walk past that have rooftop terraces. I rarely see anyone on them, but I imagine them there, enjoying a cup of coffee and watching the pulse of the city from above. 

“This is Mexico,” the woman next to me said as we waited for the Mariachi Festival parade to start.

I’ve never been one to claim autumn as my favorite season. I’ve always picked summer – holding on to the fuzzy feelings brought on by the last days of school, county fairs, unstructured days, and evenings filled with neighborhood games of “home free all” played across back yards.

My grandson wakes up on his birthday as if every year is a milestone that opens new doors. “I can chew gum now because I’m four.”