SPACE ODDYSSEY GWENNA DYE

Mijo, follow me, papá says, his red ball cap a shield blocking the blow of the cold air as we pass between parting doors, the heat rising from our backs.

I shuffle behind him, watching dirt drop from his work boots. I’m stepping on small clumps, trying to erase our passing, as papá hurriedly grabs produce — dirty, dry-skinned onions; dripping cilantro clumps; waxy red and green peppers; and tomatoes.

A tall white man, a huero, my papá would call him, crosses our path like a truck running a red light. He hesitates only a moment, grabbing bagged salad, spinning and swinging one foot, his shiny black shoe catching the wheel of our cart.

My papá smiles, dips his head and turns aside, one hand pulling me behind. The huero turns, surprised at our presence, pivoting on one heel he stands fully erect, his back arched, as if he has paused before taking flight.

In tandem, my papá and I step back, retreating between pyramids of melon, the shopping cart mirroring our moves. We’re giving way, making ourselves small, as the huero inspects the toe of his shoe.

There’s a dirty smudge on the tip, It might be a scratch or just the imprint of grime and floor wax passed on from the wheel. The huero’s hand forms a fist around the salad bag and he growls, why don’t you go back to where you came from?

I was born here, I say Into the hard palm of my papá. His hand smells of wood and earth and fear. A callus catches my lip as his hand withdraws, and cups the back of my head, pulling me onward, ignoring the heat rising from our faces.

¿Qué nos dijo, mijo? What did he say, my son? He said the salad is expensive, papá.