Embudo

From Windshield, my  memoir in progress 

I must have imagined Embudo. Sitting on the deck of Aunt Gladys’ tidy stucco home with the citrus colored rattan furniture and the gleaming terrazzo floors, Embudo seemed far away. I watched the seemingly unlimited supply of water from her automatic sprinklers douse her perfectly manicured grass, spray her grapefruit trees, sprinkle her lime trees and decided I must have imagined carrying water from the Rio Grande for cooking and bathing and drinking. I must have imagined emptying our chamber pot in the arroyo. I opened her avocado colored refrigerator and gazed at shelves laden with yogurt and milk and cheese and Pepsi Colas and beer and iceberg lettuce and shrimp and sirloin steaks and I was sure I must have imagined going to sleep with an empty belly. I picked up her telephone just to hear the dial tone. I turned on her radio and listened to Cream and Vanilla Fudge and Mountain and knew I must have imagined reading by lantern light. I let her kiss me goodnight and tuck me in. I let her brush the tangles from my matted hair and paint my toenails pink. I let her make me feel like her little girl again and I was convinced I must have imagined the terror and the loneliness and the hopelessness of those silent nights when we huddled together in that cold cabin for warmth not affection and no words were spoken and I was sure no one could ever love me again.