Selma pumps the peddles of her little tricycle, bouncing along cracked sidewalks. She waves and shouts greetings to favorite shop keepers along the way.
Now Selma is 7 years old and all the neighborhood knows. . .
Naomi and I made our way to the flower market on the metro. Roaming the stands, examining mounds of color, we searched for birthday flowers for our girl. . . flowers that are "bueno, bonito, y barrata" (good, pretty, and cheap!) Then we hauled huge bunches home, again on the metro.
"Mom, hold onto the pole! keep your bag close." my daughter reminds me. It's a Mexico City adventure.
Saturday morning Selma's school friends arrived for her party; we arranged flowers, crafted bracelets, ate fruit and sliced the little round cake with strawberry frosting.
And I met some sweet mamas who came with their girls and stayed all afternoon.
Tere accompanied Diana, a sweet 7 year old with a face like a lit up moon and dimples.
So, I stepped into conversation with Tere, "Is Diana your only daughter?"
Ahh, how mamas in every culture share their hearts. . . no, there is another daughter who died years ago. Tere showed us a picture.
"But now I have Diana!" she exclaimed, smiling.
Too often my Spanish fails me in situations like this, when I want to move in deeper with compassion and comfort; I open my mouth and hear the wrong words or verb tense spilling out.
But I try anyway. . .
"Diana is so dear but she's not a replacement for your other daughter!" I stumbled, not saying it quite right.
Then I hugged this mama tightly-- and we cried.
Selma and Diana