Corn

I had a dream about Mexico City last night. Or at least a dream/mirror image of Mexico City. The dream city had the same maze of streets and houses as the real city. Everything coated with a fine film of dust from pollution. A group of feral kids surrounded our group, sitting in plastic chairs, touching our hands and faces. Their eyes huge and searching.

I woke up remembering the girl at the market in downtown Mexico City, weaving through our small group clutching an ear of roasted corn smothered in mayonnaise. Deftly she moved around us, placing stickers on our shirts. "A peso," she'd say, then move on, taking another bite of her corn. Coming back a few moments later, empty handed, to collect her sticker and place it carefully back on the plastic sheet. According to our guides, some mothers sent their children out begging, into the night.

Irish Fest, 2007, I bought an ear of corn dripping in butter and salt, and remembered that girl in Mexico City. Wondering what her life would be like, stretching out in front of her.

My grandmother, a product of the Great Depression, used to cut the kernels off of boiled corn with a sharp knife into a bowl. As a child, I wondered why she'd go to that extra work, when she could just get a bag from the freezer.

One of my favorite fall activities is to visit a corn maze with my family. Wandering throught the tall stalks, we hunt for clues and laugh as we run into other searching families. The corn towers above us, acres and acres of farm land stretching out under the warm autumn sun.

She speaks to me in the early morning hours, that small girl begging in the night, wandering through the maze which is Mexico City.

Trying to find her way.