Category: Creative Nonfiction

It had all started with Jenny on a sunny day that turned to twilight, around 6. I was walking to the bus stop from the cultural center in Costa Rica’s capital of San Jose where I was taking a two-week Spanish language class. That’s when I saw her, the exotic-looking lady who captured my eye. She looked to be in her mid-30s, a combination of Central American indigenous Indian mixed in with Spanish/European heritage.

“I’ve made my contribution. I’m done.” He waved his right hand like he was dismissing an entire life.

“Oh, please. I don’t like to hear this.” Mom said, brow furrowed, the corners of her eyes creased, the edges of her lips turned down.

“What do you mean, done? Like done done? With your life?” I was curious about this feeling of his.

“Yes,” he said. He rubbed his hands on the table. It was a tell, his whiskey buzz settling in.

I’m on the roof of a house I’m working on, near Buena Vista park, where I find myself staring longingly at the ships fairly frequently.

Several years ago my brother asked for a dictionary.

People hold signs every day. Homeless. Anything helps. Or Hungry. Please give, Or lost job. Children to feed. A piece of me questions each one. I admit it - I generally keep driving. I roll up my window, place glass between me and the shattered world, and sit with my own shards. And I wonder if I’ve ever been a few steps away from standing in those shoes. It takes courage to ask for help. 

The artist smoked cigars—one on his porch with a glass of mescal, another during an evening stroll through the neighborhood. One cigar a day, maybe two. "Nice cigars," he said.