Yumi motioned to Ernesto to follow her outside once Abria was safely tucked into bed and offered him an ancient cellphone, a small amount of money, and what sounded like an order for him to proceed to the border without his little sister who didn’t have the strength to make it.
Ernesto knew she was right about Abria but, having every ounce of trust beaten out of him by now, decided to spark a conversation about Yumi’s relationship to Maria so he could be sure that his sister was in good hands.
Theirs was a similar journey 40 years before when Maria was forced to leave her best friend Yumi behind in this little village deathly ill and unable to continue to the sanctuary of the United States of America.
Satisfied of Yumi’s ability to care for Abria until he could send for her, Ernesto bid Yumi farewell with instructions conveyed to her by Aunt Maria for him to reach Mission Texas and set out to reconnect with Mig to complete the perilous trek. ******
George Navarro was just about to the end of his 20-hour border patrol shift in Mission Texas when he heard a terrified bloodcurdling squeal ahead of him and gave his horse a kick galloping toward the sound.
He spotted a real four-legged coyote yanking a lone small child by the hood of his jacket to the ground with four other pack members drawing a closing circle, so he lifted his rifle and neutralized one sending the rest scattering as George swiftly dismounted and swept the sobbing child into his arms.
I compare myself to no one. Each day I count my blessings and set my sights on being a better version of myself. There’s always room for improvement, IMHO. I struggle, though, with trying to remain tolerant of others while feeling the need to ‘speak up’ in the face of evil and wrongdoing. The phrase “In order for evil to flourish it requires good men to do nothing.” looms large in my heart. On a personal level, I try to be kind, forgiving, and tolerant and I save my ‘speaking out’ for topics, ideologies, and policies. I can ‘love’ individual people but in no way feel that I have any requirement to approve of their actions or philosophies. I can be influenced by well-reasoned arguments, but I can never be bought, shamed or intimidated into doing (or believing in) anything I feel is unethical or immoral. Ultimately this makes me sometimes sound opinionated and/or intolerant of those who believe ‘making waves’ is ‘hate’ and uniform compliance is ‘kindness’. With all due respect, I don’t allow the opinions of others to define me or threaten me, because I never lose sight of my faithfulness to God and being able to live with myself. As far as forgiving myself, here’s a song I taught my day care kids many years ago. I still live by it. Enjoy!
Tonight’s ‘mixer’ is required for all the new employees, and she wondered if her boss knew about it being unsafe. Sarah searched her heart for any viable reason not to go and found none. She probably wouldn’t even be nervous at all but for the President just warning the public about dangerous political extremists and then overhearing three of her co-workers quietly saying MAGA the NEXT DAY! Sarah reluctantly got herself dressed. “Ugh…You’d think the Human Resources Department would have screened out everyone unfit to ‘mix’!”
Your Friday prompt for Stream of Consciousness Saturday is “home.” Use it as a noun, a verb, an adjective, or an adverb. Enjoy!
“You can’t go home again.” No truer words have ever been spoken. Of course, gathering as families or connecting with old friends can be a pleasant experience but how often do our hopeful expectations of somehow being transported back to a ‘happy place and time’ come true? I guess that all depends on how specific one’s expectations are. I know some people would probably say that my initial declaration is a bunch of nonsense. That’s cool. I don’t intend to ‘harsh’ anyone’s experience. But for me, the sugar-coated memories I have are too precious to experiment with by adding a 2.0 version. I’m well aware of the selective nature of our memories. Heck… I never even put much stock in any ‘eyewitness accounts’. I also realize that there are varying levels of optimism and pessimism in each of us. Some people dwell only on the pleasant memories and others (sadly) give too much of their time and energy to the unpleasant ones. Either way, there’s no doubt that we have embellished those memories. So, for me, ‘there’s no going home again’. And that isn’t a sad concept. Perhaps, we who choose to take the path of blowing off high school reunions or trips to childhood ‘stomping grounds’ have a concept of life as an ever-flowing journey of learning and collecting experiences and are compelled to keep moving forward. Reflection on our ‘roads taken’ is a marvelous affirming experience but there’s no return trip in our itinerary. We prefer keeping our memories like a classic movie- without alterations, modern revisions or remakes. A case might even be made that people who keep “moving on” value the route they’ve taken the most.
Auricle, formerly known as Jane, had a ‘thing’ for ears. Nothing kinky but absolutely a bizarre fascination that turned into a full-blown idolization by the time she was 20 years old. Her most recent tribute to her favorite body part was her name change. Auricle’s obsession had developed slowly throughout her life but really ramped up in her late teens. She began eating only chicken and fish as protein sources because, of course, they didn’t have visible ears and she refused to eat beef, pork, or heaven forbid, rabbit because displacing precious ears just to consume something was the most barbaric thing she could imagine! Finally, Auricle’s agastopia became something more dangerous than weird when she started stuffing cotton into her own ears and wrapping them in layers of insulated flannel fashioned into form fitting caps during a bitter winter cold spell. The worry over ugly black frostbite on her ‘beloveds’ actually kept her up nights. Yesterday, it was 5 degrees after a 2-foot snowstorm the night before and Auricle had her first biyearly ear exam with a specialist that was kindly arranged by her newest therapist. All the roads were still nearly impassible, and Auricle knew she’d have to walk the two blocks to such an important appointment. She bundled up her ‘darling’ appendages as tightly as she ever had and climbed a snowbank stepping out into the narrow street…
…The distraught snowplow operator could be heard screaming, “But I blew my horn, and she didn’t move!” as the morgue vehicle removed her body from the bloody scene.
——— I had never heard of agastopia until now. Thanks for the fun, informative, and ultimately sad prompt.
We have a phrase this week to serve as your writing prompt.
…passing through a doorway in history
There is no restriction on format of the piece. There is no last date either, unless you wish to be featured in the Weekly Wrap.
Duncan’s head hurt. His pursuit of truth is a hunger he knows can never be satisfied in a conclusion. He wonders, “Is the past truly a mosaic of endless opinions or is there more?” To become an observer by passing through a doorway of history would give him more evidence but trusting his eyes and ears has limitations. The “who he is”- a being marinated in modern day culture and sensibilities- would be a tremendous disadvantage to an unbiased reenactment. He knows that the understanding of history is disserved by only studying collections of modern intellectual interpretations after the fact. It needs to be excavated for evidentiary fossils that prove each past moment was once alive and three-dimensional. So, Duncan reads everything he can find… journals and diaries, essays and articles. His focus is on the founding of his country. Not from any patriotic duty or political position, as one might guess, but because he has Spatial Sequence Synesthesia, and his personal ‘mental map’ oddly always balances on a fulcrum in the late 1800s. His internal visual timeline stretches to infinity toward the past and future from the 1860s every time he withdraws his focused perspective and tries to ‘see’ all of Time. His ‘gift’ is either a peculiar mental defect or a sign of something special and Duncan doesn’t believe in coincidences, so he feels compelled to understand more. He’s somehow tied to that period.
I wish him well. He may never find a full understanding, but Duncan doesn’t care as long as he collects knowledge that he can absorb through his 5 senses and his heart, bringing the past alive again. He’s a guy I’d like to talk with!
I'm nobody! who are you? Are you nobody too, then there's a pair of us. Don't tell! they'd advertise you know. How dreary-to be somebody. How public-like a frog. To tell one's name-the livelong June, to an admiring bog. Poem by Emily Dickinson.