Song of Ocarina
We met on the 603 just as spring turned to summer. I woke late that morning and missed my normal pre-rush hour train, where I intentionally sat alone and crocheted lapghans. I cursed myself, even before boarding, realizing I’d be lucky if I didn’t have to stand for the next hour. After searching through several cars, I found a seat next to him.
At first he introduced himself as Tony.
“Is that short for Anthony?”
“Actually, my mother named me Antonio, after Anthony Machado, or as she used to love to say, ‘Antonio Cipriano José María y Francisco de Santa Ana Machado y Ruiz.’ She credited him with teaching her English.”
“In what way?”
“She had a book of his poetry, which had been translated to English, and because she knew each poem by heart in her native Spanish, she slowly learned the words.”
“Do you have a favorite?”
He spoke in Spanish for a bit and then said, “That one’s ‘Fields of Soria’.” He then recited it in English, staring past me, as if the mystical fields were just outside the window.
“Forgive my rudeness,’ he said. “I forgot to ask your name.”
“Christina.”
“That’s a lovely lyrical name. What are you knitting?” he asked.
