24 Santo Domingo

Blanca does not know what she will say once she opens her door. Words no longer roll easily off her tongue. Her night whispers have been unheard or forgotten for too long. She has lost the fire beneath her throat. Underneath the broken shards of her heart, there is an angry splendor that beats against her like a storm.

She knew Marco would eventually come back, that he would try to cross her theshold again. The timbre had been ringing incessantly since she returned from teaching her class in Centro. He knew every footstep she took during her much too ordinary days. It was Marco's style to be so demanding, to lean against the bell until it provoked Blanca to surface from the shadows of her home.

If Blanca tolerated his precocious visits again, Marco would strip her down to her bones and leave her with nothing but an anxious void.

The bell begins to take on a more demanding tone. Blanca stares at her ringless finger. Her dark legs begin to quiver, her unkissed mouth suddenly goes dry.

She could simply pretend not to be home.

Behind the thick walls of her home, Blanca had created a refuge that held all her secrets. Her solitude expanded with each heave of fate. Surrounded by the formidable swirled rejas on her windows and the iron elliptical cages against her thick wooden door, she felt both protected and imprisoned. In the wake of her lost love, Blanca created an easier truth. The silent world behind her mesquite door allowed her to mourn in privacy what no longer existed. The tiresome entryway of 24 Hernandez Marcias defined her own weary exile.

Her bitterness towards Marco had become a strange comfort in the end. Her good sense and delicate heart had failed her during their affair. She knew he was not free to truly love her. He would never leave his perpetually pregnant wife or his father's successful exporting business to seek a life of his own.

She missed everything and nothing about Marco. Her life, once filled with passion and a tenuous symmetry, now was threadbare without her lover. In the moments when Blanca allowed her memories to soften, an indescribable surge would rise inside of her. His eyes had melted her like ice, breaking off her tightly held principles in sharp little chunks.

She had always known that his gifts were misguided. Marco only cared for Blanca in an abstract way. It was all a beautiful lie, one he whispered to her, and then she repeated it to herself over and over again in desperation. Their fervent lovemaking dismantled her resolve each time they were together. Her sexual wounds became her deepest shame. His touch left invisible burns upon her skin. Now they had turned into the infinite scars of his absence

If Blanca was brave enough to look into the mirror, to gaze into its scrolled golden frame, she would see only dust and muted tears. Her reflection was one of a woman whose life had already been lived.

I cannot, I cannot, she repeats to herself, as she moves closer to the door.

Blanca closes her watery eyes and sees only a dark sky. She floats against the emptiness and finds a lost dream.

She touches the cold door handle and begins to unlock the cerradura slowly. She promises herself that she will not weep. Her small hands move like nervous birds.

Blanca stares out onto the busy street. She can only see Pedro and his burros in the distance, selling his firewood and manure. Happy children prancing on the sidewalk.

She moans slowly to herself. She will not die another death today. Blanca touches the bell with tenderness and closes the door behind her.

Preface to "Crossing Mexico"

I began writing “ Crossing Mexico” many years ago while living full time in San Miguel de Allende. When I stumbled upon this colonial town in 1995, I knew I had come home. It had the charming feel of a village that had magically stood still inside of time. I was enchanted by its architecture and the endless maze of narrow cobblestone streets. My senses were instantly filled with a vibrant palette of unknown colors and textures wherever I roamed. I was intoxicated by the tumbling purple bougainvillea, each ancient building and the gentle ways of its people. There was a sense of joy everywhere, something that as an American, was completely foreign to me.

My days and nights were filled with explorations of my surroundings and the community that I was soon to call my own. My creative energy soared to impossible heights: my camera was my constant companion with a thickening journal tucked carefully away in my bolsa. I was dizzy with possibility. As I grew more confident, I began to discover that my spirit felt lighter. It was ignited with a new passion: in art and within my heart. I was “muy curiosa”, ready to shed my pale skin and all the deeply etched rules of my previous life.

It seemed that news traveled quickly in San Miguel, which made for efficient communications even without electronics. “Chisme”- gossip- spread with ferocity, often within a matter of hours. It was the blessing and curse of living in a pretty fishbowl. There was less than 6 degrees of separation between your circle of friends and those on its edgy perimeters.

In the beginning I found the wildfire of stories to be mere sport, a child's game. They delighted the storyteller in me. I once spread a provocative rumor about myself just to see how long it would take to make the rounds. Less than 24 hours later, I was proclaimed the voracious lover of both a notorious man and a mysterious woman, told with salacious details that made me actually envy myself.

I have kept “Crossing Mexico”, these 'fictionalized' vignettes, in a worn folder, never knowing if they should be birthed or simply tossed away. After a decade of being cradled inside my desk, I have decided to let them finally sip air.

I dedicate my stories to every creative soul I met during those years, each pocessed their own unique gifts, sense of drama, and beauty. There once was a time when we all walked that tightrope of ourselves together- and thought of little else.

Crossing Mexico

It is near dark. The last light of day drapes across the hillsides of San Miguel. Each brilliant color playfully dangles like a child's pinata over the mountaintops. The air is warm and plumeless. From my terraza, I can see the silhouette of the Parroquia. It pierces through the clouds as if rising into the heavens to be closer to God. The peal of its bells drifts through the pueblocito. I listen to its heartbeat and then find my own. The throb inside of me is no longer my birthright. America is a mystery to me now. It cannot hold me or comfort me. I breathe in my new country the way I would inhale the damp skin of my lover. A surge stirs inside of me, a thirst and then this hunger. A thousand years could past and this moment would be enough to sustain me.

Everything is possible within this labyrinth of darkness. The rules of life are suddenly changed by the impending night. Love could grow in an instant or turn to dust. The shadows of dusk cloak the secrets of the day. They suddenly become small and transitory. Truth seems more ironic than clever. It is easy to hide in clandestino Mexico but you can only be stealth for so long. We are all more naked here. We bring our scars across the border but forget to tend to our wounds.

El dolor es real cuando Ud. piensa que lo es. The pain is real only when you think it is.

The Mexican night becomes a precious thing. It eclipses emptiness with hope. There is no time left for sorrow. This is a new world, where everything is disguised as a beginning that can happen over and over again.