On a sultry August night in a Mexican orphanage,
we indolently lie supine on our backs,
lazily gazing at the shimmering, twinkling
celestial canvas high above,
our minds lost in incomprehensible wonder
at the unfathomed, unimagined, untold infinity
of God’s mighty signature,
boldly splashed eons ago
from one end of the heavens to the other.
What little there is of conversation
soon shifts to that of inquisitive minds
desiring to practice their developing skills
in the English language.
And so the questions come,
and I enter a dialogue with an
innocent five year old mind…
“¿Cómo se dice amarillo en ingles?”
“Yellow,” I respond.
“Jel-lo,” she painstakingly repeats.
She follows up with another query:
“¿Cómo se dice negro en inglés?”
“Black,” I respond.
“Blaaahhhck,” she slowly iterates.
“¿Cómo se dice blanco en ingles?”
“White,” I respond.
“¡Oh no, hermano!,” she adamantly corrects me;
“¡No es white! ¡Es gringo!”