My Papi has a Motorcycle

My papi has a motorcycle. From him I’ve learned words like carburetor and crino, drill and dedication.

When I hear his gray truck pull into our driveway, I run outside with both of our helmets.

My papi, the carpenter, is covered in sawdust and smells like a hard day at work. His hands are rough from building homes everyday-his job since he first arrived in this country. But even though he comes home tired he always has time for me.

When our city is winding down, he takes me for a ride.

Today, he’s going to show me the new houses he’s working on.
Papi is careful with my ponytail as he pulls my helmet tight.
When he lifts me onto the smoother black seat his hands don’t feel rough, they don’t feel tired – they feel like all the love he has trouble saying.

Papi revs the engine, and the smell of gasoline hits me as he squeezes the accelerator.

The motor rumbles and growls.
And then… we take off!

The shiny blue metal of the motorcycle glows in the sun. The sun, the sun the bright orange sun is on its way down, turning our sky blue and purple and gold.

We become a spectacular celestial thing soaring on asphalt a comet. The sawdust falling from Papi’s hair and clothes becomes a tail following us.

Papi zigzags through the streets. We pass Abuelita’s church and Tortilleria la Esterlla and stop for stray cats crossing in front of us. Mami thinks there’s too man of them. But I think there’s just enough.

We pass Joy’s Market where Mami bus my gummy bears. Mr. Garcia, our librarian, is walking out the door and nods at us. We nod back. This is how we always greet each other.

We roar past murals that tell our history – of citrus groves and immigrants who worked them, and of the famous road race that took place on Grand Boulevard a hundred years ago.

Now I know that we’re stopping at Don Rudy’s Raspados.
But as we near the shop, we see that it’s empty and out of business. I can tell Papi is disappointed.

I imagine the smell of the sweet syrups Don Rudy used to flavor our shaved ice. I won’t be the only one who missed him.

As we ride on, I feel and hear everyone and everything we pass by. Each sound landing in my ears rebuilds whole neighborhoods inside me. No matter how far I go from this place, or how much it changes, this city will always be with me.

We cruise by Abuelito ad Abuelita’s old yellow house – the one with the lemon tree that grew from the seeds of the lemons Abuelito used to pick not far from here. Mami says we’re going to visit them tomorrow to cut nopales from their garden and eat herby albondigas in Abuelita’s kitchen, where the food always taste better. We turn the corner and then…

Franky, the Lopezes’ Labradoodle, escapes from her yard and runs after us. Mercedes Lopez the fastest runner in our class, races after her.

Then, just as fast, the dogs barking and Mercedes and Franky become a soft hush in the distance.

We ride toward the new homes replacing he last of the citrus groves.

The painters, drywallers, and floor layers will greet us, but we can barely hear their words amid the sounds of hammers and air compressors. Even in all that noise, my papi’s voice touches everything.

This is my favorite part.

On Grand Boulevard, we lean into the curve of the street. I make believe that we’re in one of the races that took place here so long ago! It’s our last lap, and we have to win! The crowd cheers us on! I feel Papi’s smile as I squeeze my arms tighter around him.

We fly around the circle! There’s the school where we practice soccer! There’s the post office where Mr. Charlie takes our letters! And la panaderia where Papi buys conchas on Sunday mornings.

Here it is, all of our beautiful city! My eyes try to catch everything, but the colors of houses blend into one another redbluegreenorangepink.