Cobblestone Streets

By Leticia Cortez

Cobblestone streets and Guille with her round healthy cheeks, long braided hair, and an excited glow comes bouncing down the street shouting, “it’s time, it’s time, they’re coming. They’re coming.”  I stop in the middle of the sky in the hopscotch, still balancing myself on one leg. Then I remember, realize what she means and rush past her onto the street that leads to the mound and to the small hills. We run and get closer to it. Out of breath and eager we see it coming. A storm of flying colors, fluttering down from the sky. Not a rain of locusts, but flocks of butterflies, a rainbow of quivering colors. They come from the meadow; they come from everywhere. We just stand there, breathless, swallowed by the flickering frailty. I hear Guille saying, “We forgot the nets.” She laughs, the butterflies pass us and we ran after them even though we forgot the nets.

We see them ahead, patches of flying color above the cobblestone streets. I wonder where they go. My mother said they come after the rains.

When I remember certain instances, an hour, a day, a week, a month, a moment, a minute, I am always surprised at the memory. It is like an old melody, a delicious melody, a delirious voice and lyrics that elevate you and you almost faint with giddiness; only you don’t, but keep remembering.