Things I saw this afternoon while walking Reddy to Tae Kwan Do and Bo to a class with Helen: a woman walking with her grandson down Orizaba carrying a goat in a white mesh rice bag; a family of four on a motorcycle with the mom in the back, holding an infant with one hand on her hip; a man dressed in a royal blue velvet suit with sequins, wearing a feathered headdress, sandals, and shell anklets, with a drum around his neck; a pick-up truck with a bed filled with gourds and one five-foot, inflatable bottle of Blue Agave tequila; a pick-up truck carrying three wooden saints and Jesus on the cross; a donkey eating the geraniums in my front yard; a rock band practicing in an empty lot in our neighborhood; and a funeral procession marching up Ancha San Antonio, the mourners all walking with sun umbrellas behind the hearse, a spray of white lilies spread across its black roof. And none of it seemed odd. Except for the goat. Which was unusual, even for San Miguel.
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