Big Momma walked through the dirty grass, crushing sprigs of hope.
The juices of which wet the high heels of her impractical shoes.
And though she had never seen a well paved street, nor placed her heels on a clean straight sidewalk, though her kitchen floor was dirt, her most practical shoes were a pair of teal flip flops.
She was a Latin Lady.
Not to be out done by the young ones.
Her achilles wore band aids beneath the abrasive straps.
Big Momma had no toenail clippers in her purse, her little boy had fed them to the gutters months before, but the man on the corner swallowing warm gallo balled her on tuesday nights in a hammock hung outside his uncle’s tienda.
The aunt, wife of the uncle, was blind and thought the screams were cats.
The nail clippers, rusting guttered, had the exchange student mark from the US of A.