3/26

I’ve been trying to write this post since Saturday!

      I had made plans to do a write up of my Saturday and talk about all the interesting things I heard, saw, and did, but that same night I went out with my friends and got a little drunk. Then I thought about doing it on Sunday after I got off work, but, the moment I got off of work, I took an hour nap, woke up, listened to music, watched TV for a bit, and then went back to bed.

      Now, I’m trying to figure what all I wanted to sat about my Saturday, this morning, but I honestly don’t remember. Which has resulted in me making a list commandments for writing. The first one: Never hold off on writing because if you do the moment fades.

      That’s the only one I have written down for now. I’m sure the list will develop over the year… if I don’t forget to write it down.

      I can’t complain too much. Instead of writing about my Saturday on Sunday, I did, however, worked on my short story. So it wasn’t a total waste of time.

IMG_3570      But yes, back to the subject at hand, Saturday. On Saturday my mother, siblings, and I drove down to Ennis, Texas for an annual family cookout at my tío’s ranch. Maybe it was the fact that I was out of the city, but I felt free like the cloud of smog that carried my worries stopped hovering over me, and was left behind in the city.

The kids ran in the open field, smashing eggs over each others heads (we decided to celebrate Easter early). The wind gently breezed through slightly shifting my hair handsomely. The sun, set high in the sky, radiated enough light for what felt like a perfect 70°.

      I casually sat and overheard many conversations. Conversations about lost time, lost people, and lost memories. However, the one that caught my ear was the one about the border from Laredo to Nuevo Laredo.

 IMG_1664     I walked in mid sentence. Once the sun goes down the place is a ghost town, he said, it’s not what it use to be (how was it before, I wonder). People are scarred they run into their homes, lock their doors, and close their window curtains. I already knew who he was talking about, so much so that I started to feel sick to my stomach. ¿Y la policia? No hombre ¿Que pinche policia? None of the police get paid enough to risk their life or dare to stop them. Especially, when they get well-paid by them. He talked about “them” for a while. Them… a nameless parasite sucking the sweet nectar out of life. If you’re not from Mexico they can smell it on you, he said, and if they get you… forget about it. He talked about how long it takes to cross the border now. A process that use to take less then a hour now takes 4. He kept rambling about how ugly it has gotten and how worse it’s going to get, but at the end of it all, just as he was done beating the subject to a bloody pulp with a bat, he added, but the nights there are amazing. Everybody is alive, and there is nothing like it. He then got up and left, to get food I assume, and I stayed sitting, the wind tenderly playing with my curls, thinking about the many wonderful sights I would see when I finally travel down south across the border.

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