Papelucho Mi Hermano Hippie Here

Mamá almost fainted when she saw him. He had a feather in his hair, sandals made of old tires, and a necklace of dried beans that he swore was “medicinal.” Papá just looked at him over his newspaper and said, “Javier, you smell like a forest after a rainstorm. A strange rainstorm.” Sol Naciente smiled and said, “That’s patchouli, Dad. It aligns the chakras.” I don’t know what chakras are, but I think one of them got aligned onto the couch because now it smells forever.

I never thought I’d say this, but my brother Javier has turned into a walking herb garden. Last week he came home from the university—the one where they let you sit on the floor during class—and announced that from now on, his name is “Sol Naciente.” I told him that sounded like a brand of orange juice. He said I have a materialistic soul. papelucho mi hermano hippie

The worst part is, he brought friends. They all have names like “Luna Marina” and “Viento Azul” and they sit in our backyard playing flutes that sound like sad llamas. They don’t eat meat. They don’t eat sugar. Yesterday they tried to eat a rock because “it had minerals.” Mamá made them soup anyway, but they asked if it was made with love. Mamá said, “It’s made with potatoes, now eat.” Mamá almost fainted when she saw him