esperanza i. santos [d11, cbd #1]

esperanza i. santos
seventeen
district 11

Her mother does not speak of the man who passed on her wavy hair, or the freckles that dot her tanned skin. her mother does not speak of the man whose gait she resembles when she walks: boundless. instead, she talks of the proper way to hold a butcher knife, or which herbs mask the cloying taste of game, or how much saffron they can spare from the meager tin (re-purposed from an old pack of mints).

her mother teaches her how to make a banquet out of the frugal bistro pantry, and how to fill their stomachs with the onion fronds that grow in their backyard, with the scrapes of tesserae that she scoops from the burlap sack and boils on the stove. She teaches her when to speak the words of the elders and when to hold her tongue, and when Esperanza begins wrestling in the streets she begrudgingly teaches her the proper way to throw a punch.

In turn, Esperanza teaches her mother as well: how to laugh when the nights are cold and the days are hot; how to win a fight with a black eye and a grace filled with grit; how to sing terribly, and proudly; how to maintain her voice in a screaming match that lasts a whole hours; how quickly daughters grow up, how quickly they learn.

They are a terrible pair: tempestuous, water mixed with oil, forgetful of their own strength.
They are a wonderful pair: solid and wise, kind when all else fails, forgiving and trying.

Together they light the lanterns above the business' door, and boil the bones to make broth deeper than the oceans. Their patrons slurp up the dregs after a long day.

If they can, they leave a tip.