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A Pinata

There is the Pinata tied and swinging to the tree limb, out there near the house in the desert.  It is Miguel's b-day, and he imagines all the treasures inside of it.  Last week he found an old wooden plank by the fence which he has since honed into a bashing stick, it is like an appendage.

There is nary a cloud in the sky, and just a slight breeze, just enough to twirl the brightly tissued horse this way and that.  Miguel looks at it way up there and claps his bashing stick in his hand.  He can see it ripping open and spewing forth it's magical contents.

"A shower of contents," he thinks, and smiles.

He has checked and rechecked his birthday invitation list.  Joaquim is coming.  Eliza is coming.  Ferdinand is coming.  Juan is not.  Miguel will never speak to Juan again.

Miguel's ma stands in the doorway of their adobe hut.  She has her hands on her hips.  "Miguel," she calls.  "You have to wash your face and change your clothes before your friends arrive.  You don't want your friends thinking you are dirty, do you?"

As far as dirtiness is concerned, Miguel is ranked somewhere in the middle.  He spits in his hands and rubs his face with it, causing the dirt to accumulate in one or two dark lines on his face.  He whaps the dust out of his pants with his hand.  His ma rolls her eyes and goes back inside.  As far as cleanliness goes, Miguel is now ranked towards the top.

"Clean as a whistle," he says, and eyes the swinging Pinata.  "I hope you enjoy your swing up there," he says to the horse.  "Because today is your final ride."

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