He doesn't dream of having a million dollars. His dreams don't include a Pulitzer Prize. When he looks at a list of donations he is not impressed with the man who donated thousands of dollars, he's impressed with the person who donated and chose to remain anonymous. His little camera has a tiny black spot on the lense, but refuses to get a new one, "why? It's only dust," he says. He's a good son. He calls his mother every Sunday and he actually has things to talk about. "What about the person I was before I met you?" "What about all the people I hurt with my lies, my wicked ways, my cynicism, my destructive ways. etc.?" He loves me.
We went out to breakfast yesterday. On the way home, i connected my ipod to the car's radio because I wanted to listen to a recoding of jarocho music. He wanted to film the farm fields of our town. He didn't mind the music.
I think we are learning to listen to music together.
p.s. Sunday drives make him happy.
Soy una taza, ¡un cucharón!
1 day ago