He’s going to remember this.
He is six years old. We are three extranjeros. One of us is playing the guitar, two of us are singing. He is playing the bucket with his drumsticks, following the guitarist’s strum pattern. His eyes are fixed on the guitar, his lips parted slightly to reveal his missing front tooth and his concentration. He looks at me occasionally and we share a smile. The easiest smile. There is no pretense, only joy.
Soon he loses interest, as all six year olds do.
But he’s going to remember this.
And so am I.