A GOOD DAY

I had a daughter named Daniella who was born two months premature 30 years ago. She weighed three pounds and my first wife Dolores and I had every reason to believe that she would survive, but the germ-filled hospital precipitated a series of infections that killed her three months later. Her existence wasn't pointless. She taught me that life had no meaning without death. And I embraced her two older brothers David and Daniel with a renewed affection.

It was a rollercoaster ride for my spouse and me. There were times when we were filled with hope, but for every step forward, she would fall three steps back. During one of those optimistic moments I commented that my baby was having a good day.

"Take advantage of the good days," counseled the nurse.

It has been a good day in Mexico City. I wrote in the morning. At noon I enrolled in a gym and hit the weights. Next store is a beauty salon staffed by three young ladies. I paid six dollars for a manicure.

"May I have your eyes?" commented one of the girls.

"Sure," I said. "I'm getting to the age when I might drop dead at any moment."

"Don't say that!" she admonished me.

There is a Wal-Mart nearby and I started walking in that direction. I need scissors to cut the hairs that sprout from my nose and out my ears but refuse to grow on my head. I never arrived. A restaurant specializing in pozole caught my attention. After my workout, I was hungry.

I ordered a medium sized bowel with the requisite radishes, onions, cabbage and limes on the side. The attentive young man who waited on me recommended that I spread cream on the tostadas and alternate between the crunch and the soup.

The sun was weaving in and out of the clouds until the late afternoon when the skies turned dark and opened. Between the bossa nova and the rain pattering on the roof, I couldn't have asked for a better sound as I relaxed with a collection of Lorca poems.

It has been my intention to go to either Uruguay or Argentina for an extended visit, but Mexico City may be more convenient. Taking a 12-hour, first-class bus ride for $100 to keep in touch with my sons would be easier than journeying from Uruguay or Argentina. At a minimum Mexico City wasn't an option I had pondered prior to this trip.

I don't want to live in Brownsville anymore. I will write about Brownsville until the day I die because beyond my family, education and upbringing in California, Brownsville has made me the man I am. My dead daughter rises in a wild olive tree swaying in the wind along Military Highway. I can't dismiss the fact that I have planted roots in my adopted hometown. To leave or not to leave is equivalent to similar conundrums when I have debated between getting a divorce or staying married. I have inevitably opted for liberation over incarceration.

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