The downpour of sunlight caressed every object in sight. The curtains didn’t help much with the heat, it only gave off an appearance of a more tightly enclosed area. The living room might as well been a sauna.

The humidity in the kitchen made it seem like the pots and pans were sweating themselves.
It had grown so unbearable for me that even my effort to whine made me feel overheated. My mom had grown so tired and slow from the heat, she had given up in acknowledging ways to prevent more warmth from intruding the home.

She expressed in an animated fashion that the dish would aid our withering bodies into shape.

My face felt noticeably warmer at the thought of chilled sauce running down my throat.

My throat spikes up on a dangerously dry lump. A spray of liquid ice to aid a dried out landscape.
These thoughts had me cut the cucumbers faster.

By the time we had cut the cucumbers, tomatoes, onion and fish, my hands begin to shake. We waste no precious time to poor each content into the silver pot. Squeezing the lemon felt like ice melting down my fingers. When we added salt it looked like we down poured snow on a color landscape.
I set out the plates and my mom brought the tortilla chips. Once we have set our places on the table. I can feel the hot blood in my head move as I look down at the magnificent dish. I look up at my mom for permission, as to who will say prayer.

She looks down at me, claps her hand on the old table and hesitates.I look at her in question. Her lips moved to the slowest lopsided grin I’ll ever witness from her.
“Let’s skip the prayer this time,” she said.

That day may have been the only time I didn’t have to pray, but it was the only time I had with my mom before she started working so late and frequent. It was a time when I liked Mexican food. It was a time when it was just me, my mom, and that oven-stuffed house.

by ELIZABETH HERNANDEZ