Huevo con Chorizo
Written by Short Latina
Mamá didn’t make me get up before the sun today, so I think it’s Saturday. I hear my brother’s soccer ball bouncing on the white marble kitchen tile. My Mamá is making breakfast because I can smell melted cheese and fried tortillas. As I start walking down the stairs, I can hear the sizzling of a pan. A deliciosus sound and my guess is, chorizo! I wonder what is the special occasion. The possibilities fills me with excitement. Is it my birthday? Maybe it's my papá’s. Both of our favorite breakfast is eggs and beans with chorizo on the side. I like to dip my quesadilla in the yellow part of the egg. Papá told me that the yellow part is the baby chicken that was not born. I don’t know how he knows so much. I’ll ask him about the white stuff around it. Maybe that’s the baby chicken’s soul.
I get to the bottom of the stairs and my brother comes and calls my name “Yeyos!” That’s his name for me. Mamá calls me to sit down to eat my egg with beans and chorizo. I am so happy, and this makes me wiggle in my seat, swing my legs and close my eyes as I take my first bite. As I chew, my thoughts start to run of what all this means. Maybe we are going to the park today and mamá doesn’t want us to ask for food at the park. I look at mamá’s face to get a glimpse of what might be the plan awaiting us, but she doesn’t look happy. Her face is frozen. I don’t know if I am in trouble so I ask her, “Mamá, can we go to the park, after I help you clean?” She doesn’t answer. My stomach hurts a little. She cracks another egg and the sound of cooking oil crackling on the pan reassures me. I cautiously ask her if she is eating, and she says, “No, I am not hungry.” Her voice shakes a little like she is cold.
I hear papá coming down the stairs and I hear the unzipping and zipping of bags and wonder if it's for me. I get down from my seat silently to maybe discover a surprise. I see two big black bags, one with wheels and one with a strap. “Are we going camping?!” I ask, but papá doesn’t look at me. My stomach hurts again and I hold my belly and want to ask again, but I am afraid. He keeps putting clothes in the bags and ignores me. The fear within me grows, so I stand on my tippy toes and try to look inside the bag. I don’t see my clothes. Mamá calls me with the same shivering voice. I go back to my seat and sit, but I don’t want to eat anymore.
My brother sees papá and jumps off the seat. Mamá yells through her teeth, “Ven para acá!” But my brother is on a mission to play fútbol with papá. Papá comes into the kitchen carrying my brother in his arms and sits him on his lap so that they can eat together. I used to sit on his lap and eat from his plate, but mamá says I am the oldest now, but I know I am still his princess.
Mamá tells us to eat and we all eat in silence. The beans taste like dry ashes and the chorizo’s red grease bloodies the baby chicken’s soul. I look at my plate with disgust knowing its not the same. Mamá joins us with a cup of her black coffee and looks at us. I look at my plate awaiting my punishment, but no one speaks. I look up to find answers in papá’s eyes, but he does not look away from his plate. He keeps his head bowed and chews one bite endlessly. Papá grabs his napkin, wipes the sides of his mouth, blows his nose, and gets up from the table. He puts my brother down as his little hand holds a quesadilla. I look at papá’s plate and almost all his food is still there. My eyes widen, I can’t believe he didn’t finish his favorite breakfast. I can’t believe I don’t want to eat mine either.
I want to get up and follow papá with my questions but mamá’s eyes demand I stay in my seat until I finish. From the kitchen I hear a piercing horn. I wonder if it’s my TÍa. I peek from my seat and see a bright yellow car. Papá puts on his jean jacket and runs outside. He comes back and leaves the door open and I wonder why. He calls me and mamá. He hugs mamá and kisses her. He tells mamá something softly and mamá nods. He grabs my brother in his arms and kisses him on both chubby peach like cheeks. My brother holds up his soccer ball and offers it to him to begin a match but he replies, “I have to go my baby boy, ask your sister.” I stand there accepting my duty and he kisses me on the forehead. He tells us, “Los quiero mucho. Me voy por un ratito nada mas.” I want to say, “don’t go” or “can I go with you?” But nothing comes out of my mouth. I run back to the kitchen and hide. I am afraid to see him get in the bright yellow car because I don’t think he is coming back. I am afraid to cry. I hear the door shut and feel it on my chest. I look at my mamá to see if she is crying, because then I can cry too. But she doesn’t cry. So I sit back down on the kitchen chair and look down at my plate and I look at my egg. I remember about my question about the baby chicken’s soul, but now it’s too late.
