I see him at his kitchen table
Cutting up sweet peppers,
Sometimes green, sometimes red,
Sometimes both together.

Always why,
The child I was,
I demand to know
Why he leaves the seeds
With the peppers.

He takes his time,
I should wait.
Slowly,
With deliberation,
He stops cutting.
Looks up
With watery grey eyes,
“Honey child,
The people in Spain
Eat peppers this way.”
(Pause)
Says nothing more,
Then the long look
To make sure I will remember.

Subtle,
Oh, so subtle,
He would make of me a traveler.

I think of him in Spain.