We'd wake up in the morning, in our three-room home. More often than not, especially during the summers, the windows would be open by the time we'd wake up. We'd stretch and yawn on our full-size beds...that were usually shared with two or three other people. Our bare feet would touch the floor, our linoleum covered pisos, and we'd rush off in search of Mom and her scrumptious homemade flour tortillas.
She's usually let us sit in front of our 24" TV (this was in '87) and we'd catch the morning cartoons. After the tacos of frijol con chorizo, without bathing or combing our hair, we'd rush out the back door; before Mom could throw us in the shower. We'd run, barefoot, down this lil passage way. It connected our lot with my grandmother's property and we'd run over and paste our faces on her kitchen screen door and shout, "Hi, Grandma!!!!"
When I was a kid, I ran this caminito at least seven times a day. Most of the time it was more, way more. One of my uncles would make fun of us, saying that every morning, he could hear us scurrying over to Grandma's house.
It was those times when Dad would sweep the dirt in order to set up the battleground for carnica wars. Those times when we'd play with dirt just cuz we had nothing else to do...but we were never bored. Those days when shoes were really only necessary for school and unpaved roads didn't stop our endless games of freeze tag. Those days when laughter was sincere and genuine and bitterness was still a worlds away.
If only the passageway could be like a time machine, and take us back to the days when having dirt in between ur toes wasn't gross or annoying. I guess the passageway still serves as some sort of time machine, even if it's only in my mind.
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