Judi Hernandez heads for the living room door in a white-lace blouse and capris, curls down her back.
“You are all dressed up!” I say. “Are you going somewhere?”
“To my friend’s fifteenth birthday party,” she says, and explains, “Here a fifteenth birthday is important.”
“Oh, a quinceañera,” I say, excited to know.” I just read about one in Mexico.”
“They are similar,” she says.
I spew out five sentences about the quinceañera story an Iowa Latino asked me to edit.
Then I remember another Steve Holtrop comment from yesterday: Nicaraguans value people, take time to listen to them.
I stop. “You need to leave, don’t you?”
“Well . . . sort of,” she says, reluctantly. “But I’ll be back tonight . . .”
“We have a month,” I add. “Enjoy your party!”
As she departs, I ponder this thing in my heart: At thirteen—her exit interrupted by this sixty-year-old—she listened to me as to a host of angels.
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