la segunda vez

they say learning spanish from a chilean is like learning english from a jamaican. i remember now why they say this. the accent is so quick, allowing for only certain syllables - others are dismissable. i had to do my warm ups the first couple of mornings to get my mouth ready to speak with them, and my ears ready to listen. there are certain voices i am very accustomed to. voices i remember. voices i love. the voice of my host father, elias. his laughter and the thought that goes into what he says. my friend, juan pablo`s voice with that particular inflection and his propensity to break out into song at times. magdalena, and her pouted lips that more often than not would rather be speaking french, her absolute love. and of course, luchita. luchita`s voice is one that i think i hear in other places. "are you from chile, by any chance?" i asked a woman in a coffee shop in cuenca. "no i`ve lived in ecuador my whole life." it´s a voice i long to hear when i am far from this thin and far-reaching country. her playfulness with the language, her sarcasm, how easy it is to make her laugh.

i met luchita through the family i lived with here in santiago 2 years ago. luchita works as their maid. she has been working for them for 11 years. when i was here i became friends with her. we made each other laugh, she had patience with me and my growing comfort with spanish, we drank cup after cup of tea together, telling stories of our families. i asked to meet her family and made the hour long trip into the southern part of santiago, a complete turn around from the area my host family lives in. we walked down the dirt road past small homes clumped together, painted vibrant colors, garbage on the ground, dogs running free. before entering her home she said "my house is not extravagant, but it has a very big heart." what i found inside was a group of people that i would soon consider my own family, my chilean family. her children, her grand children - the small and delicious meals they would prepare, sitting together for hours talking of the world and telling stories.
this is what has meant most to me my second time here in chile - seeing her again, and being with her family again. i spent the night with them last night, making the trek to her house with her, and back here to the center of the city, to suburbia, early this morning. i helped her with her chores, washing the dishes, and soon, when i finish writing, will help her make dinner for my host family. i leave chile tonight thinking of her family.
here is a poem i wrote about her.

Otra Realidad

highway vespucio is the route for them
every morning they wait for the bus
they greet a neighbor, or a dog that they know.
on the bus they talk to one another sometimes
but mostly it`s a silent recognition.
they see themselves in one another
and questions are not needed.
the bus follows the highway for kilometers
past shops on corners
past a vineyard, dry and dormant, the snow-covered Andes beyond.
past men laughing, huddled on benches
dogs, lazing in the shadows of the trees.
"look at the mountains," she tells me. and i do.
past supermarkets now,
past cinemas
and metro stations.
people selling car parts
people selling newspapers
selling cigars.

one of the women on the bus coughs. "she always coughs like this."
"you know her?"
"no, but i often see her here."
the bus is quiet. they look out the windows
their backs aching,
their ankles aching
feeling the silence that their journey allows.
they think of their children, of their grandchildren,
lost loves, old friends.
they imagine life outside of the bus,
outside of their route that they follow
everyday.
"and in a plane, can you see all of santiago?"

their wonderings are interrupted by the beeping of the impending stop.
manquehue, the weigh station where they all disperse.
some to apoquindo, some to colon.
all to homes or apartments that are empty
save for the dirty dishes
and dirty clothes,
dirty floors and dirty windows
left by those in suits and dresses, with briefcases and breaths of brandy.
and so her hands that rubbed her eyes so early and then set the kettle on for tea,
her hands that held her granddaughter when she woke,
so these hands will clean the squalor,
will set the table
and fold the clothes,
put them right again.

here the dogs walk on leashes, they don`t run free.
and they are all poodles, or scotties. fancy and well groomed heirs of their family`s good fortune.
not like the dogs dirtied by games, love and adventure,
chilled by the wild outdoors, seeking out the sun and food scraps left on the ground.
not like them.
these poodles don`t yearn to be touched or talked to, they don`t look at you.
because neither do the people.

as the elevator takes us up one floor at a time, luchita searches for her silver key.
"otra realidad, no?"
knowing full well that in eight hours she will be back at the bus stop, seeing herself in the eyes of all of the other women who are living parallel lives, with her.