I climb the stairs and go to Henry’s room to rouse him from his slumber.
“Time to wake up,” I say as I gently shake his leg.
“What’s today,” he asks, as he does every morning. Each morning, he likes a run down of the days activities.
“Today we have church,” I tell him.
“Today?” he whimpers. “But you told me we had church tomorrow.”
“Yes,” I explain, “but I told you that yesterday.”
I think Henry wishes that “tomorrow” was the same as “manana,” which, in the Spanish-speaking culture, is just another way of saying “not today.”
