Someone's Daughter

Bowerbird Chronicles III, Patricia Pearce

You wait there in your Mary Janes, your black strap tap shoes and sassy cream colored capri pants. The bus has yet to come. Snow still caps the mountains all around you. Your smart silhouette assures me that in waiting, the ride will arrive. 

Arms not crossed. A bag of books on your right shoulder. I imagine inside, short stories of fiesta by someone's daughter; feminism in four short lessons; the poems of Lorca with no translation. Readied for debate. Your lipstick one shade of winter fade, spring's first tulip, electric crimson. Earring hoops gifted by a friend. 

Behind you, the weathered parking lot of abandoned roasting tumblers, broken tail lights, red splinters on the blacktop. Before you, a slow snaking road of autos idling toward downtown's plaza where vendors spread small blankets topped with turquoise. The smell of caramel corn spilling from a metal cart. Obelisk in the center naming the dead.

Your casual stand barks assurance. You chew the air, unaware. Your patient suspension stalks the anticipated arrival at, perhaps, your abuelita's tiny casa on Taos Street. Your husky hush crossing her northside threshold. Thinly iced angel food cake in your eyes.