My Father Picked Up Mexican Workers Every Morning and Paid Them Cash
By Elinor S. Laurier
And for months, dark-haired men erected the bones of what would become our house—hammering, sawing, wiping sweat with musty bandannas, and my eight-year-old eyes studied their callused hands as they accepted lunch pails brimming with hand-made corn tortillas and pico de gallo, lunches delivered by wives who swaddled babies to their breasts while their husbands patted their round behinds, singing Besame Mucho, while my mother fanned herself under the shade of a Palo Verde tree, watching, always watching, asking my father how much longer, and I remember the workers’ smiles when my father paid them every Friday, eyes wide as they counted thin stacks of American dollars, and then finally we moved into our house, the hand-painted Mexican tile kitchen bursting with sunny yellows, the Saltillo tiled floor lacquered and glossed, long hallways leading to many rooms, and glass, so much glass—my mother required light, and my father said this is what happens when you work hard, when you live in the land of the free, and my mother’s closet was laden with dresses—a new dress every month, she told my father before they married, it was part of the deal—and my father required that she must always remain youthful, remain beautiful, remain thin, and I remember wondering if this was freedom, my mother an exotic bird, the house a glass cage.
THE END
Author Bio: Elinor S. Laurier enjoys travel, hiking, and photography. Her work has appeared at Sweet, a Literary Confection, and won a Top Ten spot at WOW! Women on Writing's 2023 Q3 CNF essay contest. Often, you can find her at her local bookstore, where she gobbles up carrot cake and books in equal measure. She and her husband call Arizona home.