My father wore Guayaveras,
Despite their casual nature, the men that would frequent our home in Mexico and smoked the strong cigars wore them like tuxedos.
I often marveled at the intricacy of the weave. Imagined a day when I could sit around our court yard with my own and join the men who told the stories, blasted out obscenities and told the dirty jokes with my father.
At the end of the evening the men would leave. My father had enjoyed too much cognac and his nose would be red.
Then I knew I would pay penance for the day’s trespasses. For the broken dish at the party, or falling down off the tree and scuffing my newer shoes.
The belt would sail through the air and strike. Often until he lost his breath and tired out.
Then my mother would relieve him of his shirt and put him to bed.
On the morrow…the shirt would be crisply hung. Ready to be worn again.