survive 3 minutes without
air, 3 days without water, and
3 weeks without food. Three
weeks is equivalent to twentyone days, 504 hours, and 30,240
seconds. “30,240” I repeated in
my head. Impossible, because
I’m still alive.
I can smell the delicious odor
from my Dad’s tinga swarming
through the living room. The
food calling my name by its
redolence, tempting me, yelling,
“Try me! Try me!” A feeling of
emptiness in my stomach and a
clenching force below my throat
begins to emerge. The force
attempts to creep up slowly. It is
demanding, twisting the inside
of my stomach, refusing to
stop until it gets what it craves,
food. “What he doesn’t know
won’t hurt him”, I thought. I
tippy-toed to the kitchen, not
wanting to be seen or heard
by my Dad; I didn’t want to
receive a lecture. The warmth
of the tinga engulfed my face
and I gladly inhaled the aroma
that once mocked me. I dipped
the tostada into the rich tinga,
hearing it crack in my mouth.
My taste buds jumped from
excitement and sent signals
to the force in my stomach. I
had finally fed the beast and
it was, for a second, tranquil.
“What are you doing?” the
familiar deep voice of my
father reached my eardrums.
My body froze and I could
feel the heat rush to my face.
“Nothing”, I said, dropping the
tostada. “I can’t believe you’re
doing this. You’re supposed
to be waiting for your mom’s
arrival like everyone else”. In
Mexico, it is instilled in us to
wait for every family member
to arrive. If there is at least
ONE member missing, we
do not dare to touch even a
plate. It shows that we respect
and appreciate each other.”
He paused waiting for my
response, his eyes wide and full
of character. I rolled my eyes.
“This isn’t freaking Mexico”,
I thought.
Three hours later, I heard the
familiar footsteps of dragging
feet. My mom walked in with
a smile on her face as usual,
but this time I saw the black
bags underneath her eyes,
the wrinkles on their edges
that reflected her age, and her
pseudo-smile, finally re