“Have
you
seen …”
Our voices echoed off stone and metal.
She was out of sight before we could even finish.
In a hackberry tree shading the Acapulco Ice House, a squirrel flicked her tail like a housewife shaking a dirty dust rag.
“Have you seen Marie?”
“Okay, well … Let us know if you hear something.”
We walked down alleys, gravel crunching underfoot. We talked in between fence slats to folks getting ready to barbecue, the scent of mesquite and fajitas reminding us we hadn’t had lunch yet.
Over on Adams Street, we interrupted the family Ozuna’s Sunday get-together.
“¿Qué, qué, qué?” Grandma Ozuna said.
“They’re looking for a cat, Yaya.”
“A hat?”
“No, Yaya, un gato, a cat.
A cat. CAT,” they shouted
into her ear.
“Cake? No, I don’t want any queque.”
Poor Grandma Ozuna. She’d lost more than a cat, pobrecita.