SUNDAY SOUNDS
SUNDAY SOUNDS
By Maribel Martinez
I wake up to Mami singing along to Rocio Durcal and the clanking of pots and pans on the stove. It’s Sunday. The sun is out, and the birds are singing. My neighbor’s rooster crows, Ya levantate in its kikiriki.
Mami has already set out my church clothes for the day: dresses with olanes and my Mary Jane black charol shoes. I don’t like those dresses. I think the ruffles are ugly and scratchy, and I hate how the sewn-in center sash cuts my panzita in half. I would rather wear my pink Winnie the Pooh T-shirt and leggings with tennis shoes so that I can jump and play and no one saying “sientate bien” or “no andes brincando con vestido.” But I wear the dress anyway.
Papi puts on Vicente Fernandez on the car ride to Guadalupe Church, and he hums and whistles along. As I look out the window, I see people on the bus, walking, and in cars, buzzing. At the red light, I can feel the thump-thump-thump of the bass and eclectic guitar chasing a soft voice singing Angel Baby from the car next to us, cruising along low and slow.
“I would rather wear my pink Winnie the Pooh T-shirt and leggings with tennis shoes so that I can jump and play and no one saying “sientate bien” or “no andes brincando con vestido.” But I wear the dress anyway.”
Papi, Sister, and I sit toward the front where Mami can see us from the choir benches. Mami sings the high notes beautifully. Toward the end, after we have held hands for Our Father and shaken hands, we hear the bells twinkling before we line up for communion. Are those the same bells the paletero uses? I think to myself, reaching into my pocket to feel the two-dollar bills. One is for the collection, and one is for an after-church snack.
Then, we go to El Paraiso Mexican Restaurant downtown, where my Tío Toni works. Mami and Papi say hi to everyone there, and of course, my sister and I have to shake hands with everyone, too. I don't know them, but they know Mami and Papi and tell me about times I don't remember. “¿Me recuerdas? Ay que grande estás. Te pareces mucho a tu mamá.” I shake my head and smile. They hand me quarters for the jukebox, and I press the buttons that play songs that make the grown-ups sing, yell, and sometimes cry.
After we eat, we walk down to the plaza to watch the fountains shoot up water and then fall back into the concrete. Whooosh–Whooosh–Splash. Mami tells us about the dancing waters at the plaza in Mexico. “One day, I will take you to see them,” Mami says.
On the ride back, I hear the low humming of the engine and voices fading in and out through the open car window. Far away, a siren of a police car, or a fire truck, or an ambulance—I am not sure which one. As the sun starts to go down, my eyelids feel heavy. Papi’s voice and Mami’s laughter feel miles away, even though I know they are in the front seat.
Sunday is a symphony of sounds in San José.
“ I don’t know them, but they know Mami and Papi and tell me about times I don’t remember. “¿Me recuerdas? Ay que grande estás. Te pareces mucho a tu mamá.” I shake my head and smile. ”