Posted by Esteban
All things come back to me: dry lightning on the prairie; how they threw Hun Hunahpú’s head into a calabash tree because he played soccer too loudly; how you made me feel that first time. I let that homeless guy stay at my place and the couch never smelled right again.
Do you hear me? I don’t know why the Americans are here. My brother was killed by a bomb. I held my sister back so she wouldn’t see the body; she screamed and her fingernails clawed my face.
My father’s own father was hardly a good man. You could say he loved his family in a certain way, but he was a gambler and had a temperament not suited for domestic responsibilities. One night my grandmother met him in the doorway with a boning knife. She had packed his dufflebag with neatly folded shirts.
Why do I tell you these things? It’s because you felt hurt. I just remembered that you’re human and that these things matter to you. All the fighting. It can’t be easy. Tell me how the Tapirapé paint their bodies. Tell me how the airplanes came, dropping whiskey, and guns, and crisp dollar bills. I will listen and everything will be all right.