by Sam Treviño
For my father while visiting the RGV
On those hot sentimental days
my heart is a freshly baked concha,
light
airy
delicate
and ever-so-easy to damage
or drop, floating
at sweet bread speed into the dust.
Pastel sugar decoration becomes accented with caliche and
baked in that South Texas sun.
When my father and I attend the funeral of a cousin in San Benito
we are the only ones standing by the prepared cemetery plot
in our dark suits, hiding our sweat stains like a secret.
Everyone else —
the friends and extended familia I haven’t seen in decades,
if ever —
wear loose slacks and guayabera shirts or pearl snaps,
some with wide-brimmed hats to block the sun that is baking us like conchas.
It's my father who taught me to keep my heart soft as pan dulce
and as open as the big Texas sky.
Even when the buzzards begin circling overhead
because you overdressed for a RGV funeral and forgot to bring water,
still you must always be good and kind.
We haven’t been back in too long and forgot how to dress for this land.
You must dress for comfort
even when celebrating the dead.
Even when mourning the loss.
You must exploit whatever cool breeze you find
in this burning bright life.