All of the water pipes in our street are currently being replaced. This means there are construction workers everywhere, and so, when I took our dog out for her walk around noon, there were about a half a dozen of them arrayed on and around the end of our path leading to the sidewalk. Built wide rather than long, as if born to anchor the tug-of-war team, they were mostly in their mid 50’s. All dark and weathered from the sun, they spoke some sort of compromise language, incorporating English into whatever the dominant native tongue was of the group.
I imagined them, now probably 30 years out of their places of birth, returning each night to a home that was frozen in place and time. Here, there would be framed photographs of the family, mementoes of a life near the sea and the scent of spices drifting out from the kitchen. In the morning, the worker would take the lunch that his wife had made and then packed for him.
Dumplings.
Pasta.
Sardines.
Thermoses that look 40 years old.
Later, clustered together beneath the shade of a tree, the men eat. One man carves slices of apple using a knife that he keeps hanging from a belt loop. Another chews a thick pork sandwich that has had all of the crusts tenderly cut off. Putting out a cigarette, he later opens a Tupperware container and begins to eat olives, pieces of sausage—each bite a taste of home, a reminder of something.