Roadkill
We weaved through blaring horns and hand-me-down taxis with crosses swaying from their mirrors as our driver hummed along to the crackling radio. “Que Agonia,” the driver belted out at the chorus and I wondered if he was serenading us about flowers or agony. My mom checked her purse for our passports for the fourth time since leaving the airport, patting them in her pocket like she was burping a newborn. The sun baked us through the windows, and my sweat acted as an adhesive to the ripped leather seat beneath me.
“Is that dog dead?” I asked as we bumped along the South American streets brimming with people and noise. In the middle of the roundabout, the animal’s coat functioned as the yang to the ying of the scorched black concrete. I glanced back to the animal in question as we sped by. It swayed sickly like a buoy at sea with each passing car. It was on its back, bloated like an overinflated balloon that could pop without a second’s notice. It was Acapulco’s own Statue du Marechal Moncey.
We hit a pothole, lurching the vehicle like a rocket lifting for takeoff. My older sisters exchanged glances like they alone knew we were aboard Apollo. Dad’s grin grew in the streaked window, the dark tinted film separating at the top. The one that rattled in protest. Mom inhaled like she hoped the oxygen would give her wisdom. Maybe patience. But what did I know? I thought there was the possibility that an upside down dog could still be alive.
“No, honey. It’s just sleeping,” Mom said with her whole chest. Her lips twitched at the corners, too. She gave me a pat on the head, one that you’d give a dog for returning its ball for the hundredth time.
My hands now grip the steering wheel, swerving around the flattened skunk. I reach for the inside air button faster than a cowboy in a wild west gun draw before the smell — like the memory — overwhelms my senses. My kids spin around in their seats to witness the crime scene. I hold enough breath that my lungs inflate like a Macy’s day float while I examine my kids in the rearview mirror. When they turn around to ask if the skunk was okay, I repeat history, thinking about the lies moms tell their kids — like why we’re leaving in the dead of night — because they don’t want them to see the world for what it is.
