Cans of Pasito

 My memories of being a little girl are definitely hazy. I don't remember a lot and what I do remember makes me really sad.

Anyway.

I'm sitting at work (shh!) with a can of "Pasito" on my desk. For you UK readers, it's a fizzy drink. Supposedly tastes of passion fruit. 

Drinking it takes me back to being about 8 years old. Dad, Mom, Jay and I were living in a sort of trailer park thing - in a structure called a "Donga" which was like a house made out of a sort of shipping container. It felt a lot like a huge caravan, to be honest. We had a close-knit community - loads of white European guys married to Filipino women (go figure) each in our own little "dongas", so I think we were all pretty happy.

A few Donga's down from ours lived an old guy. In my blurry memory, he was about 100 years old. In reality he was probably younger than I am right now typing this but bear with me, ok? He had an accent and at a guess it was maybe Polish? or Swedish? German? Something like that.

I don't know how it was okay with everyone (in this day and age, people would go nuts) but my parents left me alone with this guy a couple times a week after school or on a weekend.

Praise God, he was a good guy who was obsessed with cleaning. I remember we'd dust everything, polish things, sweep and mop the floor, clean the bathroom, scrub the tiles, do the dishes...and the strange thing is, I loved it.

I loved working alongside the guy. We barely talked, but I enjoyed being around him. The guy had an old record player with foreign-sounding albums. I liked them. He would show me how to sweep, mop, scrub, polish - you name it and I would nod...and we'd just work. 

Even at that age, I liked seeing things neat and tidy again. I felt proud of the clean, shiny walls and floors, that the furniture was neatly in place and the dishes all put away.

After "work", we'd sit side-by-side on his front steps and he'd pass me an ice cold can of Pasito.

I'd nod.

I think he'd say "well done, girl" or something like that. I can't really remember.

But I do remember the sense of pride in a job well done.

I remember I'd quietly drink my Pasito. He would quietly drink his drink. I don't think it was a soft drink but maybe my imagination is filling the gaps in for my memory and it could very well have been the same as mine.

I loved visiting the guy. I loved working hard and being rewarded with a can of soft drink.

So, as I'm sipping my cold can of "passion fruit flavoured" fizzy water...I remember how it felt to have worked hard all afternoon and have a rest.