Adobo Criollo Sergio Antonio Ortiz Rivera

It started on a Summer Day in the 50’s It was at some church retreat in the 50’s. She said something about Christ’s resurrection. They started to gossip about the impress of Christ’s vanishing. The meeting ended and they folded their wooden chairs. She matched his telling with listening, and more listening.  Whatever the case, she listened. Everyone, except my grandmother,  found him impossible, including me, especially me. He scuffed the wind with his sneaky nature, offended  the rotting oaks by the solemn river bank every time he got near my mother. But there was little I could do. I’ve waited this long to say: Mother, it was your failure. Up to the very end, you failed to see him for what he truly was.

I love the simplicity of our mutual puzzle … I have roads whose secrets never end you are neither sun nor moon

the day ends on a wet bed of leaves— I was ready for new experiences the old ones burned out they lay in little ash heaps along the roadside while I sat on a rock