Crossing The Border #42

San Miguel #42

I watched everything they did. I watched them move around and I watched everything they did after they moved around. I watched until they were quiet. I watched more while they were quiet. Mom’s chest was rising and falling slowly, so I stepped back off the book, lifted it with two hands and put it back in the bookshelf in the right spot. I climbed back into bed and grabbed my teddy bear by the leg and hit him against the wall a few times and then I told him I was sorry and hugged him tight and put my head down on the pillow and stared at the crack in the wall.

I am a bird perched on the iron railing out there in the courtyard. I lift off into the air, spreading my wings, flapping them just enough to lift myself above the iron railings and up toward the opening in the courtyard ceiling. I’m up above the hotel now, looking into the courtyard, I can see the door to our room marked 7. My little bird head looks up toward the Parroquia and I fly that way higher and higher, the bell tower coming closer until I can carefully place my little feet with their little talons onto the stone ledge. I stand there, resting, next to one of the giant iron bells, looking out over the town, surrounded by mountains, a dark cloud having settled into the valley and obscuring the sun the moon and the stars.

I wake up and the pillow is damp. I dress myself and lick my hand and pat my hair. I grab my backpack and as I walk out of the room, I peek over and it’s just Mom. Her back is facing me, the top of her spine exposed, curving down her back like a centipede.

I walk into the courtyard, turn right and head toward the kitchen. Maria is there washing a pot, steam rising as water splashes into the kitchen basin. I stand in the doorway until she turns. She smiles, turns the spigot handle and wipes her hands on an apron. She reaches over to the counter, lifts a rolled tortilla off a plate, wraps it in a paper towel and hands it to me.

Buen dia pequeno.

Usted tambien Maria.

She smiles and puts her hands together in front of her apron and keeps looking at me until I turn and leave.

On Hidalgo, the pack of boys in uniform look over at me.

Gringo con el pelo blonde.

They all laugh at the clever and suprising use of the English word, then turn and continue their discussion in hushed tones, making their way slowly up the sidewalk, changing places with each other occasionally, the group moving like a jellyfish in an ocean current.

I search all along the left wall for the little shop that looked like a cave but can’t find it.

At the bottom of Hidalgo, the old man appears around a corner, leading the donkey, grimacing as he pulls the reins taught, the donkey whining and yanking his head up and down in protest.

Luis is nowhere to be seen and so I ring the bell but Augusta doesn’t come and I have to stand there in the alleyway waiting for the next student to arrive so we can figure out how to get in to do all our work and everything.