Let’s See Tomorrow
“‘Amá,” called the boy, as he scooped a spoonful of frijoles and plopped it back in his bowl. “Tomorrow’s Friday.”
“Si,” Mamá replied. “It is.” She set her bowl on the table.
“Can we have pizza night?”
Mamá considered this as she flipped the tortilla on the stove. She considered this as she placed the plate of tortillas on the table. She considered this as they said grace together.
“‘Amá,” said the boy halfway through the frijoles. “Can we have pizza night tomorrow?”
She took a bite from the rolled tortilla in her hand. “Vamos a ver mañana,” she said.
“Okay,” said the boy, softly, stirring his frijoles.
Mamá chewed the food in her mouth and swallowed. She patted the boy’s arm. “Let’s see tomorrow, mijo.”
The following Thursday, as he ate his frijoles, the boy yelled from the kitchen, “‘Amá, tomorrow’s Friday.”
From their bedroom, Mamá yelled back, “It is, mijo.”
“Could we have pizza night this time?”
Mamá considered this as she threw on her scrubs. She considered this as she searched for her shoe underneath each of their beds. She considered this as she hurried into the kitchen and swallowed two spoonfuls from the boy’s bowl.
“Vamos a ver mañana,” she said on her way out. “I’m late.”
“Okay,” said the boy, softly, stirring his frijoles.
Mamá returned to the table and sat for a second. “Let’s see tomorrow, mijo. What toppings would you like?”
“Pepperoni and sausage,” said the boy. “And jalapeño,” he added.
She stood up and kissed his forehead. “Okay, let’s see tomorrow, mijo,” she said.
The next Thursday, as the boy sat at the table, waiting for his bowl of frijoles, he said, “‘Amá, tomorrow’s Friday.”
“It is, mijo,” she replied, as she took out the pot of beans from the refrigerator.
“Could we maybe have pizza night this time?”
Mamá considered this as she fried the beans. She considered this as a splash of oil fell on her scrubs. She considered this as she served the boy his frijoles and headed to the restroom.
Later, as the boy brushed his teeth, Mamá was still kneeling at the tub, washing her scrubs and trying to get the oil stain out.
“Let’s see tomorrow,” said Mamá, standing up to stretch. “Let’s see about pizza night.”
The boy, with toothpaste suds covering his mouth, smiled. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s see tomorrow, Mami.”
The following evening when Mamá came home, she revealed from inside two paper plates the biggest slice of pizza the boy had ever seen. Mamá offered to warm it up in the stove and she could cut up some fresh jalapeños, too, but the boy couldn’t wait.
“It’s so good,” he squealed after the first bite.
Mamá smiled as she sat down with a bowl of frijoles.
“Where’s your slice?” asked the boy.
“I’m not hungry,” said Mamá. She rolled a tortilla and bit it. She spooned frijoles into her mouth and took another bite from the tortilla. “I just want a little frijoles, mijo,” she said, rolling another tortilla and smiling at her boy.
Other stories in this collection can be found below. Thank you for reading.
© David Urbina 2019
