Pulled Pork Sandwiches

“Let’s go Lisa!!” moms voice shrieks behind me. Dad stands behind the plate, his fingers wrapping tensely around the metal fence in anticipation. Not the safest practice, but it gives him comfort. “I’ll buy you a sandwich if you hit a home run,” Albert bribes. I laugh a little behind my helmet at the thought of him paying his debt with mom’s money for a lunch I’d need anyway. How many pulled pork sandwiches could I have in one day? The tiny concession stand in Colombus, Ohio, just happened to be the best I’ve ever tasted. The light, thinly shredded strips of meat were trimmed of fat and bathed in a sweet and tart barbecue sauce, staining my lips in a savory comfort. I would hit the ball anywhere for another one.

“Throw your hands at the ball,” Albert encouraged as I stepped towards the plate. For years I watched him hit, his hands exploding in a swift motion from his back shoulder to the ball, guided with his hips and ending with his back toes dug deep into our lawn. “You have to squish the bug.” He’d explained, channeling the information from my dad to me. “Look, I’ll show you.” He’d demonstrate for hours, as I fed him baseballs and ran deep into the neighbors yard to retrieve them. “Can I hit now? Pleasssse?” I’d beg, wanting to show him that I understood. “Well, you have to get me out first,” he’d respond. “There’s three outs in every inning.” 

I raked the dust beneath my feet to mark my place in the batter’s box, then tapped my bat to the outside corner of the plate. Every player had their ritual, and this was mine, stollen long ago from my brother. The sun struck down in its mid day anger, scattering little beads of sweat on my face. This was Nationals, we were down to single elimination, and the Virginia Stars were returning champs. No pressure. 

I twisted my hands around the bat handle in a tightening grip as I waited for the first pitch. “Be patient,” my dad both advised and embodied. My breath slowed and I felt it fill the corners of my back. My mom’s words reached me in an elevated whisper, as if a thought had accidentally escaped her, “You got this.” My body followed a dance I’d studied for so long, not needing guidance or thought. The ball met my bat at it’s thick center, and in a simple sweet kiss, it said good bye. I rounded the bases at my leisure as a spectator threw the ball in from the other side of center field. My team awaited me at home plate, but I looked up, instead, at my family, smiling and cheering in the stands, thinking to myself, so when’s lunch?

Ana Gabriel (written for my mother)

I hear your voice through any song by Ana Gabriel.

I sit awkwardly at a table for one. It’s my first time in Texas and the heat has beaten me with exhaustion and hunger. I wait patiently for a bus to Austin, but can’t bare to sit outside in Sundance square. “Is this really where I want to live?” I wonder silently, staring out to the barren streets. As the air conditioner wipes the sweat off my face and neck, Ana Gabriel’s voice spills through the speakers, carrying me in a tidal wave back to our Saturday mornings.

“Quien como tuuuuu, que dia a día puedes tenerle.”

On weekends, mom’s voice travels through the house as an unexpected alarm. The rest of us, drained from trying to get her up during the work week, unsuccessfully take shield under layers of weakly stuffed pillows. She floats through the living room, her center stage, to visit each of her audience members for their own personal serenade. “Llevantate,” she squeezes in as new lyrics to the song. “Que hay oficios.” She drifts down the hall on her high healed flip-flops, stamping the air with hints of Mistolin and Pledge— more friends for the concert.

I tumble out of bed if I’m not on the floor already from some turbulent dream or sheer clumsiness. I look out onto East Mountain Ave where bikes are waiting to be driven, and bats lay lonely on the grass. Oficios, then outside. I am suddenly energized, as if the song shook me awake. In Gardner, dad signed us up for basketball or soccer on these weekend mornings, or lazily searched the grocery aisles until the cleaning was coincidentally over. “Dos horas pa la compra?” mom exclaimed, as we cleared the trunk of plastic bags. Albert walked barefoot toward the house, veins popping out of his neck as he balanced a string of bags on each arm. He’d take the risk of a hernia over the need for a second trip. “Mira, si tu ve la fila que habia..” my dad would respond, and no one could confirm that it wasn’t true.

At the small Mexican Cantina, my order of tacos rests in front of me, clashing down over Ana Gabriel’s voice. I smile at the image of mom, using the broom as her microphone, and then laugh, oddly to myself, at the fact that I’m hearing only the singer’s voice for the very first time.