One Saturday I overhear Toño and Sinaloa talking about going to the movies, a big splurge, so I jump right in and all in a rush I say, “What will we see? ¿Vaqueros? Can we have palomitas?” I think I would love to see a movie, a cowboy one. A sometimes treat, already I love popcorn.
A glance slides between them so quick, if I were not looking right at them it would have skimmed by. I realize they are planning to go just the two of them. Stupid me. So I catch myself and say, “Well, after all, maybe not. I am tired.”
“Sure?”
“Yep. You watch for me.”
“Okay,” Toño easily agrees. “We will bring you popcorn.”
“And a Coke,” Sinaloa chimes in.
Next morning, when I get up, a small paper tub is waiting for me. And a watery Coke. The buttery fumes still rising from the tub, I think that is what pulls me from bed. Here in the United States this treat is called “popcorn.” “Popcorn” is fine, but I call it by its Mexico name which is more beautiful: “palomitas.” Little doves. I eat the palomitas for breakfast. Even cold they taste good. But for some reason they make me feel lonely.