Those bumps, jolts and swerves were mood music. I trusted that my dad knew where he was taking us, and how he would get us there… I enjoyed the passing scenery, the people that waved to us… I wondered about the lives of whomever might live in the colorful homes, with the fading paint and beautiful veraneras (bougainvilleas) swaying at us over rusted barbed wired fences…

And the not-knowingness of it all. As in, not knowing whom we were going to pick up along the road. A campesino with his machete and the ripe smell of a long day of work? Two freshly showered ladies making the long trek to the bus stop? Some kids on errands, with a sack or two in tow?

And always from my dad, “Mijita, córrase.” “Sweetheart, move over.” In other words, make room. Make room.

Sit on each other’s laps if you have to, but Make Room.