I find myself strolling through a garden replete
with cold iconic sculptures Madonna-like from

an era much more Catholic than now. She appears
walking intently toward class climbing the steps to

a temple-like building with thick columns. I fix
my gaze on her. She seems to fit into the scheme

of our surroundings. She is of an ancient class
of cultured sophisticated dark skinned people.

Her light brown face draws me to her in a stunning
most captivating way. She notices me. I

ask her a question from a distance. She can not
hear so she moves closer to me. I repeat the

question but stare at that face – that face that smiles and
responds in perfect Spanish - so I dust off my

failing Castellano and communicate as
best I’m able in haltering sentences. She

is supplicant and enticing and I succumb
in a kind of sudden psychic trance and then just

as suddenly … it’s a blur ... next I remember
she is in our bed room and very much pregnant

with my child but I don’t remember the sex with
her. I wish I could. I bet it was good. She stands

there so small yet protruding so large and still so
beguiling by the nearby dresser drawers as I

focus in on her studious dark rimmed glasses
framing her dark face. She is more demanding with

me now as she moves about responding to the
voices throughout the big house from both sides of our

families who are in the fast throws of our nuptial
planning which she takes in feminine stride and I

want her in my life so I sit up and go to
her and hold her petite body close to mine. She

is so small but she is mine and beloved. She
responds in kind with soothing Spanish words I strain

to understand about her commitment to our
new familiarity and future as a

family. She breaks off the embrace and joyfully
reveals a collection of baby clothes gifted

to her by the relative crones and sorts through them
demonstrating each item: