Sounds of Belonging

Bells. On a garbage truck!
Well, more like tinkly cans
tied behind some newlyweds.
They ring the question to my mind:
Did you set the garbage out last night?
Yes, I remembered, so
I can turn over for a few more winks,
lying in bed and letting
garbage bells comfort me.
Ah, now I know it’s seven AM.
Outside my bedroom window,
I hear the truck squeak to a stop.

Sometimes I watch the dance
of these workers of such good service
who all day long on every street
take our trash away –
agile artist-athletes who leap off the truck
to grab our bags from the sidewalk,
toss them in the maw,
and hop back on the moving truck.
I’ve never seen them miss a step
in their graceful choreography.

An hour later, the water man,
on foot, precedes the water truck
that’s packed with five-gallon jugs.
Walking past each door,
he’s calling, Agua. Agua!
Today I holler through the screen:
No, gracias. Buenos Dias!
When I do need drinking water,
he carries in a full one on his shoulder
and sets it on my countertop
to break the seal and unscrew the cap.
I clean the rim with a paper towel
before he flips the bottle,
all forty-five pounds, upside down
on top of my ceramic dispenser.
Our exchange includes
a little ritual inquiry about his family
and a handing over of pesos.

Midday a fruit truck passes slowly.
I have to listen hard
to understand the spiel,
fast announcements in Spanish
from a speaker on top of the cab.
If neighbors emerge, the truck pulls over.
I think today he’s calling out
“strawberries”!  And oh, hooray,
it’s the season for pitaya!
The tropical cactus fruit,
its skin bright-pink and scaly,
it features seedy pulp of red or white,
and its English name of Dragon fruit.
By the time I find my coins,
neighbors are lining up
and looking over the offerings
displayed  in the back of his pick-up.
Slow moments  of the day to exchange
greetings and neighborhood news.

Today I need to call for propane,
since my morning shower was cold.
I can tell when they arrive
because the company truck
has its special advertising ditty
blasting from the speaker.
Zeta, Zeta. Zeta Gas!
When the truck rolls up,
I’m ready with my past receipt
so I can compare the cost per liter
and how many it takes this time
to fill the tank on my roof.
The young kid sets his ladder
and scrambles up with the hose.
While I watch the truck meter rise,
I smile to think
how good a hot shower will feel.

The ice cream drive-by usually happens
near the end of the afternoon.
It’s a three-wheeler with a song
that pulls both children and adults
like magic to the curb.
These streets of Mexico pulse
all day with the music of life
and good wishes all around.
How grateful I am to partake
in the daily rituals on my block
that bring me the sounds of belonging.

©Susa Silvermarie 2026