As an only child, I hung out with cousins,

The only “brothers” I would ever have.

The oldest pitted us against each other,

Teaching us self-defense through nose bleeds,

Black eyes, swollen lips, and bruised egos

To match the discolorations we wore.

He teased and taunted, a prankster without

Malice, merely a masterful manipulator.

I wonder if he knew how much we craved

His praise when one of us emerged the victor.

A grin from him equaled the greatest prize,

Even if we didn’t understand the game.

Like the time he led us into a field,

To show us a bowl of soup, he said.

Confused curiosity made us follow.

Until we stopped not far from the horror.

Eyes drawn to the decomposing carcass

Of a horse. Our first firsthand view of Death.

Prim lobbed a big rock into a moving mass

Of maggots feasting on the flesh.

His laughing eyes and dimpled grin

Met our disgust, our morbid fascination.

A lifelong lesson retained in my memory

And a lifelong abhorrence of soup.

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Carmen Baca taught high school and college English for thirty-six years before retiring in 2014. Her command of English and her regional Spanish dialect contribute to her regionalistic story-telling style. Her inclusion of traditions, customs, superstitions, folktales, and other facets of the culture is deliberate and calculated to entertain and to inform readers about the Hispanos of New Mexico. She is the author of 6 books and over 70 short publications to date.