Just on Thursday, in class, we were laughing and joking. She had her little boy there with her, keeping him busy with his Finding Nemo Happy Meal. We had to practice putting neck braces on victims. She put her head on my lap and I put the brace carefully around her neck, not to catch any of her thick black hair. Then the boy declared that he wanted to try it, though it nearly engulfed his little head. He laughed and giggled, and handed it back to us. Her hands were competent and stable as she strapped the Velcro around my neck.
For the hundredth time, I wondered why she didn't talk more, because I liked to hear her talk. I wondered why her name was so Hispanic, but her voice wasn't-- she had no accent. She didn't smile very often, but she had a pretty smile, and I liked the way she talked to her son. The way she encouraged him to answer our questions.
He is three.
He is still three.
Two years separated Maritza and me in age. Two towns, two rows in our class. She wasn't my friend, but she could have been.
She could have been.