by PRECIOSA
I remember seeing my mom cutting
carrots and tossing them into the huge
pot filled with boiling water. The smell of
tanginess of the lime and tearful aroma
from the onions remind me of my uncle’s
restaurant back in Mexico. The color teal
blankets the walls. I sit by the door greeting
customers as they enter. Neighborhood dog
lying in the sun. Hearing “Propuesta Indecente”
playing on the small little radio. Drawing my
attention back to the traditional soup
made by my mom.
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