When You Live With Regret
I remember it so clearly, that day I regret. I was seven years old sitting in a lawn chair surrounded by the poor Hispanic family from down the road. The Mendozas didn’t have much, but they had each other, and were always together like a pack of puppies in our neighborhood. I don’t remember their folks ever being around. Perhaps their parents were away working night and day to feed eight kids in that single-wide trailer on a hill across the road. The Mendozas taught me how to make tortillas on the stove top without burning my fingers. Salt, tortillas, […]
