Mexico, December, 1985. A merely 400sf house made out of cement. It is grey, it is cold and visually depressing. We are all layered up with heavy garments because we don't know best how to dress up for the cold. We, my brother and I, are playing in the bedroom / livingroom waiting for the food to be served. My mom and dad are in the kitchen, which is the next room of the house, cooking and talking.
Little did I know this part of my memory would have been craved more than I craved that meal. The memory of my family together, the memory of the flavors of my food, the memory of my childhood. It wasn't a long visit, the ghost had to go and visit somebody else. We said good bye, but deep down I know that wasn't a real good bye, it was more like until next year.
Food is ready and gets served. It is the same food we get at least once every day; refried beans, scrambled eggs, corn tortillas and water. Not a very balanced diet we had, but certainly a healthy one. We don't look enthusiastic about the meal rather we look, accustomed. We finish it and leave to the livingroom / bedroom knowing we will eat the same thing the next day again.
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