When it Seems Like Nothing Matters, Pt. 1

Cheese makes a tiny heart on fresh-cooked pinto beans.

When it seems like nothing matters,
we gather
beneath a pergola draped
with crimson chile ristras, two feet long,
and glowing white party lights that illuminate
a brick patio and large scarlet umbrellas
that shield the horizon’s sunset from our eyes,
as the sky deepens into rich sapphire.

We sit
around a long, wooden table
painted turquoise and chipped, just slightly,
and rest
our backs against bright yellow chairs
as our eager fingers
unfold red fabric napkins embracing silverware,
and toss them lightly,
like laying picnic blankets on our laps,
ready to catch tortilla chip crumbs and
thick, chunky salsa,
or fresh-cooked pinto beans flowing
with onion, rich garlic, and cilantro
into rice and enchilada sauce
on large, hot orange plates.

When it seems like nothing matters,
we relax
order house margaritas,
salt shimmering on glass rims
like diamond trimming on ballgowns
flipped upside down.
Then we settle
with smiling friends,
wrinkles crinkling in corners of eyes
as plates arrive,
and fajitas sizzle,
and steam fills our faces,
and cheese oozes like fiery lava over warm tortillas,
then stretches long and thin like string
as forks pull each bite to comically, wide-open mouths.
Our tongues taste the heat of green chile,
senses activated like lightbulbs,
as our eyes, widening, look up at the sky,
then down at the colorful feast.

When it seems like nothing else matters,
we eat.