We Are Not from Here: Part 2

I looked back toward the earth, toward my house that from there looked small and insignificant.

She’s right, of course. He’ll kill us if we go back. But Pequeña’s words hang ominously in the air, mixing with the smell of food from just moments ago.

Pequeña crunches on some plantain chips and for a moment, it almost feels like an adventure.

And with our stomachs full, we are lulled into a quiet tranquility.

And with our stomachs full, we are lulled into a quiet tranquility.

I wake to the same taste, now stale, as the bus pulls into the station and we get off. A sense of deja vu comes over me as we walk into the thick heat of the day and into the streets of Tecun Uman, where people rush back and forth all around us.

Women with large baskets and people on bicycle rickshaws rush past, too.

Sometimes night feels like a faceless terrible thing with claws, a wild thing with a black, palpitating heart.

“It’s all right,” Pulga whispers, his voice tinged with irritation, but mostly compassion.

Chico and I tell her about Rey and she listens intently, quietly.

...we're allowed one shower during our stay, and we must stand in line and wait our turn; showers must be done one at a time except for mothers helping their children; no belligerent behavior; no threatening or harassing other migrants; no alcohol; no drugs.

I’ve heard of people traveling miles this way, over dirt road and pebbles and gravel, on their knees to appeal to the altar of a saint or holy figure.

Pequeña’s face is stoic, almost expressionless, but her lips move ever so slightly.

I try to pray, but all I can do is wonder why we have to hurt to be worthy of God’s grace. And then I worry it’s blasphemy.

I hear a cracking sound and I wonder if it’s my heart breaking.
Maybe it’s not made of muscle and chambers. Ventricles and arteries.

We listen intently, and a sobering quiet comes over us when the father pleads for us to be vigilant and careful.

Father Gilberto prays over us, and then the crowd disperses, quiet at the father’s words of sobering reality.

It’s the one old man who hobbled to the mural of la Virgen last night.

Even with the rush of voices of all those who hurried to help, voices yelling for someone to start CPR, yelling for someone to call an ambulance, for everyone else to stand back—even with all those noises, it’s her scream, and the way it reverberated through that shelter, that I’ll always remember.

We don't see anyone else, but we feel the fear, palpable in the air, as if the trees and bushes themselves have absorbed the weight of this journey from everyone who has ever roamed through.

Chico and I were walking to school when we saw the police cars and morgue truck that came to collect his body. Thrown on a gurney.

So much carnage, so much blood. Like an animal in the slaughterhouse.

I imagine I am an animal. Skulking through the darkness.

We look back and see cars positioned haphazardly across the highway. People out of their cars, shouting, pointing at something on the ground.

And I told myself dreaming up a future wasn’t worth the pain that would come when eventually, inevitably, it would get crushed.

He lets out a deep sigh, and I wonder if bringing us here, not charging us a single peso, wasn’t some kind of penance.

The tears are streaming down my face before I realize it, and I am wiping at them, reeling back from the table to the bright, dusty yard.

But the train only moves a few feet before it stops and sits idle again.

The sun gleams behind Pulga like a golden corona around his head and in that instant, he reminds me of Jesus.

I laugh and their faces shine even more with happiness. Chico’s cheeks so round, highlighted by the sunlight. Pulga’s more serious face and downcast eyes now gleaming with achievement.