As I arrive at the plaza, I greet fellow traders as they set out their wares. 
A horse-drawn wagon, pulled by two lean horses and driven by Juan Bautista de Rivera, passes by as I lay out two large pots, both made of dark red clay. In the wagon, Juan has packed deer pelts, sheep hides and furs for traders in Santa Fe. He says the work is not in the packing, but in knowing some things may not be traded at all.

José Antonio Chávez is there as well, laying out his iron goods. His things include knives, hatchets, axes, nails and horseshoes, all set in small rows. José often brings his son, Miguel, to the plaza. His boy hopes to be like his father one day with goods of his own to sell. José’s wife keeps his cloth in good order and mends what wears thin. 

Isabel Garcia has come again. She brings maize, beans, squash and chile, carefully set out. She tells us her chile is “kissed by the sun.” Many know its bite, and they know what she has before they reach her. Her husband has been gone some time now. She speaks of him simply, and that is enough. 

By midday, the plaza is full. There is no place to stand without stepping into someone else’s trade.

Juan has nearly traded away his best hides. What remains hangs stiff at the side of his wagon.

José’s iron goods are thinner now. The piles of nails are smaller, and the tools he keeps closest are the ones not yet taken.

Isabel has sold nearly all she brought. Only a little maize and a few chiles remain before her.

I do not leave. What I eat, I eat here.

By afternoon, the crowd begins to thin. A few soldiers pass through on horseback. The space shifts for a moment, then settles again.

When the sun begins to fall, I gather what I have left. It has been a good day. Most of my pots are gone.

I return home before dark. Antonia has finished her work. A set of blankets rests near the wall, ready for another day. Others have told me how warm they are, especially during winter.

Our youngest, Rita, comes to me first, kissing my cheek before wrapping her arms around me. Francisco finishes setting out the meal in the main room. 
There is chicken tonight, with beans and rice. We do not eat it often, and I take my time with it.

Over the meal, Francisco says he would like to work in the law when he is older. I tell him that it’s not easy work, but Antonia says he should do as he is led. 
At dark, the children are already in bed. I set aside my clothes, still carrying the dust of the plaza, and follow Antonia in for the night.

I lie down beside her.

“Buenas noches,” she says, kissing me softly before turning away.

“Buenas noches,” I say, and close my eyes. ❖