THE PLAZA

As Pierre sat looking at the fountain in the middle of the Plaza a strange thought came into his mind. A brief brightness came from his eyes as he wondered how many pairs of shoes had walked the bricks around and through the Plaza, how many pairs of pants had worn the spots on his favorite bench on the west side of the fountain, how many greetings had been exchanged over the years?

His name wasn’t really Pierre and the years had hidden the reason why everyone in the pueblo always addressed him by this strange name from a country he had only seen pictures, of but had never visited. On the faded birth certificate his name was recorded Carlos Antonio Gonzalez Riviera, but the only time he even saw that name was when he took his pension check to the bank. It had always been and was to this very day, Pierre.

The bent benches his father and grandfather had sat on in the Plaza had been replaced a few years ago with these cold cement objects which were not at all a pleasant experience. Modern they may be, but comfortable they were not.

Sitting in the Plaza as the brightness of the day started to put on the paling of the evening, Pierre gazed around. It was as if he were seeing his entire mortality parading before him as friends and family communed. Over by the old oak tree there were little children scurrying while being closely watched by attentive mothers. For a moment he saw the vision of his beautiful mother holding his hand as he tugged for freedom, wanting so badly to be with his older brother as he climbed this same oak tree which at that time was much less magnificent. His mother always called him Carlos except on those occasions when she was disappointed in his choices and then it was always Carlos Antonio! In remembrance it seemed to Pierre that it was a time filled with ‘don’ts’ and ‘some days’.

Because the work in the fields was more important than sitting in the small classroom at the school, Pierre had only attended four years. He suddenly remembered that the town’s teacher had called him Carlos the first day of school and when that was met with an uproar from the other children, it was always Pierre from that day on. During those years he passed by the Plaza each morning and each afternoon, but the buildings surrounding it were much more appealing to him than anything the Plaza itself had to offer. On Monday mornings he stepped inside the Church to ask for help with his numbers and letters. He would be forever grateful for having had the opportunity to learn to read, Pierre knew his life would have been much less had it not included the wonders found in books. On Fridays his father gave him a few cents to buy a sweet at the little corner tienda. He longed for the day when he might be able to have one of the delicious meals whose scent he was able to smell coming from the open air restaurant. There was the store where his mother had bought his first torturous pair of shoes and his first pair of pants which needed a belt. It was a time of ‘things new’ and ‘things different’.

It was a magical time when the passages of life allowed him to participate in, rather than observe, the promenade around the Plaza in the evenings. When Maria’s first smile caused him to turn and walk by her side until the day she joined the other angels she had always called him Antonio. Pierre might be what others would call him, but to her he would always be her Antonio. From that day, until Maria stood by his side before the Priest near the Alter of the Church and became his wife, they had spent every evening walking the bricks of the Plaza and sitting on the bending benches. It was a time of ‘knowing love’ and ‘knowing companionship’.

During the years of fathering and providing, Pierre seldom entered the Plaza, but usually sat outside the restaurant at the table nearest the street and looked across at the continuing of the cycle of life going on in the Plaza. It was only on Saturday evenings when the week’s work was done that he was able to join with his friends and enjoy a few moments of pleasantness. It seemed like only a closing and opening of his eye and their children had passed through the stages of the Plaza.

Maria went from living to memories way before Pierre was ready. He soon found little reason to sit at the table near the street in front of the Restaurant. It was a time filled with ‘happiness’ and ‘sorrow’.

Now as Pierre sat on the unforgiving cold cement objects, these day breathing and thinking seemed sufficient reason to be at the Plaza. Pierre now went daily, but Tuesday afternoons had become his favorite evening. On that evening the two young men in the white shirts, who wore ties even on the hottest days, came and told him of wondrous things he had only hoped for. He marveled as they assured him that there would be continuance to being at Maria’s side and their joy would extend eternally.

He was astounded to hear that there were Plaza moments before his mortal birth and there would be Plaza moments forever. The revolutions of life went on in the Plaza, but on Tuesdays, Pierre concentrated on his conversations with the young man from Idaho who spoke with an interesting accent and the young man from Peru who was always at his side. It was a time abounding with ‘hope’ and ‘peace’.

I have written this week’s thought with two purposes in mind:

It is your life; write it down so those who follow will know!!

I would hope we would all be blessed with our personal Plaza where we can sense and contemplate the restrictions, the discoveries, the emotions and the truths of life.