'I told you, my mom brought me here. A long time ago'.
'She likes butterflies'?
'I guess. Otherwise, why would she bring me.'?
Langley couldn't answer.
'Are you and your mother close'?
'I am an only child'.
'Really'!
'Si'.
Langley couldn't decide if Miggi sounded defensive.
They walked back to the car without talking. There were no butterflies in the parking lot.
Twenty minutes on they were sitting on the porch of a small casa that had become a cafe. Vines covered a wooden skeleton of a roof. The house was simple but neat. A plate of cold cod arrived and the two ate hungrily.
The lady of the house, turned propriatress, appeared at table side.
'Anything to drink', she asked, in a strange Spanish Langley could barely understand.
'Perdon'? , he said.
The lady repeated the question.
'I'll have iced tea', said Langley, understanding.
'Same', said Miggi, with slow decision.
Langley was secretly thrilled.
'Mmm. Hot, sweet plantain', he said, biting into one.
The plantain steamed on the end of his fork.
Miggi made a face.
'I was raised on them', he said. 'There was no end of them. They're cheap'.
'They're good'!
Miggi said simply:
'They fill you up when you're hungry'.
'Of course', agreed Langley, suddenly cautious.
Then Miggi told him a bit of family history, between mouthfuls of cod. Before he was born, his family used to be prosperous. Not rich, mind you, but solidly middle class. The kind you win by working hard and hanging in. His grandfather...
Morgan Michaels
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/from-the-double-vi/
