Marcos

That little bug used to flip his eyelids inside-out, even though I thought it was gross. Actually, he flipped his eyelids inside-out because I thought it was gross, which was the desired reaction.

Standing in the entrance of his neighborhood off of the highway and seeing what kind of trouble my little insecto was up to became an almost daily event. Usually he was kicking around dirt between his house and Carmen's, soccer ball at his feet or mango in hand, his face splattered with yellow-stickiness, his fingers coated in dust and juice. "Marcos, ven aqui!" I'd call in, and then I'd hear him giggle and watch him quickly turn his back towards me. "MARCOOOOOOOS!" I'd call again, in a louder sing-song, and the giggle would greet my words like a magnet. He'd start to shuffle backwards to where I was standing, small shoulders shaking with laughter. As soon as Marcos got in front of me, he'd pause (for dramatic effect, naturally) and then jump, twirling in the air. When we were face to face, the pinks of his eyelids were revealed, and I'd squirm at the whites above his pupils. We'd chase each other until laughter got the best of us and he'd collapse into my arms and then we'd spin and spin and spin.

I've realized that I now associate rain with everything "Nicaragua": with the joyful release it brought us from days of heat, with the sound of it colliding against the windows of our van, with the awe of watching an entire dirt road disappear under the hand of a flood-empowered river. Mostly, though, it makes me think of my last night with Marcos, when a storm took the power away and we sat on Carmen's patio with only the light from a birthday candle. It was all the kids in the neighborhood, all of them under there trying to escape the weather. We sat in a circle, a few of us gringos and the whole herd of Nica children. Someone started a round of Duck-Duck-Goose, which was mostly a frenzy of screaming and jumping up and down. After awhile, Marcos grew tired of the game and came to snuggle in my lap. I found it funny, that this little chico had become so precious to me so quickly.

This little boy with the deepest dimples, the loudest scream you've ever heard, the biggest hugs and the most teeny tiny legs imaginable - he was the hardest goodbye. When we left, he shrieked "adios!" at the top of his lungs, not realizing then that we weren't coming back the next afternoon to take him to English class or to share an avocado. Marcos, his whole family, and every single one the neighbors stood there in the rain, waving.

Not too long ago, I saw a picture someone took of him with a new haircut. It made me sad to think of him growing up there, becoming a new person far away, already different. It doesn't seem fair, that he got to witness (whether he knew it or not) me grow and change, how he was there each day as my transforming self stood at the entrance of his neighborhood hoping he could play. He saw me come and leave differently, and I'm too far away to watch as he does the same.

But really, when I think of this new hair-trimmed Marcos, I realize that the growing is sweet. It's the most precious type of excitement, imagining that little bug in years to come: becoming a man, changing the world.


photo cred on top photo to Joanna Lang, one of the most awesome chicas ever and a soon-to-be Manna PD! yippe! :)