Canícula

But there was nothing to be done, except cry and go on.

I’ll dream of going to Monterrey and eating a pirulí—a candy that really lasts all day long, and you place it in a glass of water overnight so it’ll keep.

The US-Mexican border es una herida abierta where the Third World grates against the first and bleeds.

—

Sometimes, though, I’d pretend to feel the crawling, itching signs of lice so I could lay my head on Mami’s or Bueli’s lap and feel their gentle fingers caress my hair lovingly and find nothing.

She sweeps pirul branches over my body, rubs an egg cool as it touches my arms, my legs; mumbles prayers as I lie on the kitchen floor.

“You’ll see, ya verás, when you are old and cry, ya verás, there’s solace in tears, te consuelan.”

“Es manzanilla para el dolor de hijar, ándale, tómatelo,” Mami comforted.

A carefree teen with family on both sides of a river that’s never a barrier; after all, she’s Texas-born, her land lies beyond borders.

“Can you find lost people, too?” I ask.

“Only if they want to be found,”

Maybe I’ll even win a little pink or blue chick to keep me company. And I do but when the chick becomes a chicken, Bueli wrings its neck, drains the blood, and we have arroz con pollo for Easter.