The Spanish-Personal Narrative

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It was 106 degrees fahrenheit. Beads of sweat streamed down her southern Spanish skin, soaking her ragged t-shirt. Her enormous pregnant stomach was no match for her tiny, fragile body. Her bare, swollen feet were devastatingly tormented from the ancient streets she was forced to tread. She looked helpless; defeat had pinned her to the hard, unforgiving cement. Seconds before she gave up, she looked at me. The impossible sadness of her fading green eyes abruptly halted my casual pace. All familiar means of communication escaped me. Without a word I was sprinting toward the nearest cafe in an attempt to bring hope to her in whatever form I could; in this case it was a panini. I frantically placed the order in my choppy, nervous Spanish and returned

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