At the Street Albina

With synchronized voices and sense of humor, the street vendor tries to sell me bananas, breads, and noti, the voice is thrilling in twenty languages consecutively when I was still there as a fool admiring those mule lips. In smile; a storm of jingle bells open that face resounds in the most dark corner of my heart, and I tell to myself this is my town, and this is my people. As smile falls in the curious path of waiting from this grown silly tourist, I reply to her you do not recognize me? I am your son who has come to stay.