Jorge

It wasn't much of a scenic overlook, but it was still a welcome break for us all. This was West Texas, a land of clay-colored canyons and bluffs, and I was sitting atop a hill gazing upon it. Around me roamed a troop of young Mexican children.

Their father, Jorge, he looked very Mexican. Sharply cut black hair, a thick black moustache, blue jeans and a tucked in white undershirt. And a straw hat.

I started counting the kids out loud when Jorge interrupted me.

"Seven. I been busy man."

Ha! What a wink he gave me. "Busier than me!" I told him.

We shot the breeze a little, where we're coming from and where we're going. I mostly sat and exchanged smiles with all the kids. The youngest was in Jorge's lap, and the rest took turns crawling all over him. A young girl watched as her baby sister engaged a stone step. She poked it with her fingers. She gestured and pointed. I'm pretty sure she didn't think to go up it.

After some silence Jorge started his family prayers.

"Hail Mary full of grace..."

And the kids mumbled a response under their breaths.

Then a second time. Each iteration with different lyrics.

And again, a mumbled response from the kids, speaking as one.

After a third prayer we all enjoyed the silence and the smiles for a couple minutes more before they were off.

Warmed my heart right up.