Hasta mañana,
which we learn as “see you tomorrow,” and whose literal translation is “until
tomorrow,” is the Panamanian way to say goodnight. It also is used in the sense that we learn it
in the states. So here, instead of
saying good night to someone, we say “until tomorrow.” It’s both an expectation and a goodbye, as if trusting you will all wake up to face another
day.
“Hasta mañana,
sweetie,” says my neighbor to her kids as I step shivering out of my cold
shower behind the house. Everyone next
door is getting ready for bed, as am I, since it’s just past nine o’clock and
we all have school in the morning. Hasta
mañana, squeaks back little Dona in her tiny voice. Hasta
mañana, mamá, says seventh-grader Daniel.
I recognize their voices as if we were standing in the same
room talking while I shake out my sheets for bugs, hang up clothes I’ve strewn
about in my frantic rush to change into shorts and a tank top after walking
home from school in long pants and a button-down shirt. We live on top of each other, practically. Their bedroom walls and mine are only a car’s
width apart—I know this because Donny’s red truck fits snugly in between our
two houses. Once, I sneezed while
getting ready for bed and my neighbor shouted “bless you” from inside.
Hasta mañana, chimes
little Dona again as I turn off my light.
I hear their fans switch on, and then only distant sounds of dogs
yelping and buzzing crickets, the occasional squeak from the geckos crawling up
my walls, and a rooster who feels the need to make sure everyone should know he
exists. I close my eyes. Hasta
mañana, I think to my neighbors.
….
And then shuffling.
And a curious murmur.
….
Dona, déjà eso! Leave
it alone, Dona. Dona squeaks something
unintelligible back. José, get in bed! José replies with
something along the lines of “I’m going,” which means he’s probably messing
with something in the kitchen. I open
one eye.
José, I told you not
to touch the fridge!
I hear
the distant sounds of aaaeeeehhhhh.
No. No you’re not
going to--
AAAEEEEEEEHHHHHH. It
comes through the concrete walls as if they were sheets.
Dona squeaks something again. No! You don’t have to be up! Go back to bed!
I remember how I don’t want kids yet. I am so tired.
RRRRrrring. My
neighbor answers. Hello? Hello? Aaaah, where were
you, I was trying to call you. I need
you to send me that thing you told me you would send me. And the family? Where are you? What are you
doing? What do you mean they have a quiz tomorrow? Daniel!
A ten minute long rebuke commences.
I am too tired to grumble.
I hope for someone to call me, too, so I can say “hey, I’m really tired,
in fact, too tired to talk, I really need rest.
Call me tomorrow.” My friends do not sense my desperation from their cozy,
noise-free homes up town.
Dona, déjà eso! Squeaks.
And you, stop crying!
Duermense, carajo!
I think of a semi-controversial children’s book that made the New York Times
bestseller list earlier this year.
And then, somewhere between the shuffling and the whining
and the rebuking and the excuse making, all I hear again is crickets, geckos,
dogs, the rooster.
Whether the noise has stopped or whether my brain has hit a
threshold, I don’t know. But at least
it’s safe to close my eyes again…hasta mañana.
