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# 51: nostalgia

I was 8 and a half monthsí pregnant. We were sitting in silence, sulking in front of a muted TV set, too tired to continue the argument. Thatís when it happened. A breeze blew in through the open window, carrying with it a thin, greasy whistle, a vaporous promise.

"Fried bananas," I said, and my mouth was already watering.
"Weíre in Madrid," said my husband. "It canít be."

But I could picture the banana seller with his cap and his moustache. I could see the cart and the burner, the metallic lake of oil, the haphazard tower of pipes. And I knew their call.

"I want mine with condensed milk." I said. "And strawberries."
The baby kicked inside me.
"Donít come back without it," I said at the door. But I was smiling and I kissed him and he kissed me back.

Now my son is eight and he wants to know where his father is.

I tell him that that he followed a song blown in on a wind from the other side of the ocean. I tell him that one night, before he was born, I had a craving for fried bananas.

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submitted at 4:01pm

27 January 2008