Love on Tour

Sacramento, CA

Sacramento, California

The air was cold, but the sun was high with no cloud in sight, which was odd for a November day, so you begged to go outside. Your mum was doing laundry while your papi was finishing lunch. Neither one had enough time to stop and watch your every move as you skated down the pathway. You promised to be careful and not speak with strangers, assuring them the door would be wide open. Only eight years old, and you were already so independent.

They agreed, making you promise to come in at the first call. Easiest promise you could make to them.

Lacing up the roller skates, using the steps to find your balance once you are off. There was no stopping you as you let time go by, skating up and down, careful not to get on the street.

Having been skating for a few months, you gained confidence quickly, which meant testing faster speeds. It went well the first time. You could stop yourself from losing your footing, laughing, and feeling confident to do it again.

Racing up, you giggled as the air rushed through your hair. You promise one more time, then you'd go back to parent approval speed. You rushed forward, arms moving quick when you felt your foot knick a rock; you lifted your arms up, bracing for impact, letting out a small whimper once you hit the ground.

You tried stopping the tears, feeling a cut on your elbow, knowing your mum would be disappointed for not wearing your elbow pads that made you feel ridiculous. You were not looking forward to a lecture.

Sitting up now, you ignored the scapes wanting to get the skates off to run inside to your papi, who would know what to do.

You run inside, leaving the skates behind.

"¡Papi! ¡Papi!"

He walks out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on the apron around his waist, his eyes wide in panic, "qué pasó mi nena?"

You hold your arm close to your chest, "los patines, me caí."

He crouches down in front of you, "ven, déjame ver."

You stretch your arm out, making sure not to make a sound, wanting him to know you were brave.

"¿Te duele?"

"No," you whisper.

"¿En algún otro lugar duele?" He scans you head to toe.

"Mummy se va a enojar."

Your father shakes his head, wiping away your tears that begin to fall again, "por supuesto que no nena."

"Sí, no usé mis," you pause, searching for the word translating to "elbow pads."

He laughs, "I don't think there's a word for that."

That makes you giggle. Good to know your papi doesn't know everything.

"Lo lamento, Papi."

"Mi vida, lo sé. No estás en problemas. Vamos a limpiar tus heridas."

He walks you to the restroom, sitting you on the counter as he grabs the first-aid kit that rests under the sink. It's full of bandages that you always convince them to buy at the shops.

"What happened here?" Your mum asks.

Your papi and you turn your heads to the open door and look at your mummy, who's got a concerned look on her face.