At The City’s End
By Raul DeLuna
It is humbling being at the city’s end, away from society, with nowhere to hide. I am looking beyond the barbed wire fence and the air smells untouched by the city filth, cooling my face, as my legs dangle above the vast void of nothingness. Along the lake’s shore in Chicago, I would gather with “friends” at night and look out upon the powerful mass of water.
I am not sure why this place once had a lasting impression on me. It may be that more had happened than I realized at the moment. What if I had an interaction with the watery host, deeper than the other guest I was amongst. I swear to you that it knew who I was and where my life would lead to. Then again, how can this be so? Did I not take into consideration all that it had witnessed? The people that do as they please on its shores, the boats that sail into and out of sight, the civilizations that once existed only to be lost beneath the countless gallons of pressure.
I too felt the immense pressure, the desperate grasp for air as each court date neared. What if this is why it refused to answer any of my silently asked questions? The water foamed as it crashed against the slimy concreate boundaries, blocking out my pleas for an answer. Was this a way of telling me my tragic life is uninteresting, the outcome too predictable, seen many times over? All the uncertainties I had in life needed light and water greedily hid its wisdom in the shadowy depths, beneath the veil of darkness.
How am I sure that I wasn’t as alone as I felt? Was it the calls from women, “Come here, take a sip with me”? Surely that may have been the lake itself, not bothering to give me an answer but a solution. Could I have jumped in, finding myself suspended in liquid mercury, a serum that would numb every pain, and give my soul the rest it sought?
When I return, I will no longer see the same place. I believe if I visit again, I will only see water. The everyday transparent kind, so ordinary that we forget how essential it is to life. I would probably walk away uninterested. I am not fully sure why things would be so different. Perhaps I have changed, and the lake has remained the same.
Suenos de mi Pueblo
By Raul DeLuna
There are times when I drink a harsh cup of coffee as I see the sun rise past the barbed wire fencing. My vision usually becomes blurred by the glint of the light, and I begin to see better days of my past.
A heavy amount of stickiness fought against my eyes attempt to see through the day. The thin crisp air whipping at my face wouldn’t allow me to enjoy my slumber. The hum of thousands of honeybees vibrated beneath me as I sat on the rusted pickup bed. The heat of the motor gave me comfort as the sight of adventure filled me with excitement. The fumes of the exhaust signaled the start, like the end of a gun initiating a race.
Everywhere I turned, the sounds of my town Atemejac de Brizuela surrounded me. Routine morning cleaning (an elderly woman bangs on a carpet outside of her home), gas salesman perfecting their craft (el gaaaaaaaas!), a food truck causing the stray dog’s mouths to water (butcher knives chopping meat along a flat top grill), a donkey carrying supplies along the road (hee-haw!). My favorite always at the end of the town, the green sea swaying back and forth from goalpost to goalpost, with its ripples glistening from the droplets of morning dew. The whining bolts of the seesaw and swing set called for me in the distance.
The thumping beneath was close to an end. Each cobblestone contains the known history and hidden secrets of the Atemejac. They demanded my attention along the way, my feet responded to each crevice, they shook the metal beneath me and attempted to beat at the drums of my ear. All of this failed, as I was too consumed in being a part of the ongoing story.
The town was now behind me, but steady work remained around me. Hundreds, thousands of trees were on each side, each one a community of their own. Critters, fluffy beasts, and masters of aviation, all giving and taking as needed. The rows of pine seemed endless, rocking back and forth until I was put into a trance-like state. A wood fence ahead broke the trance, an anomaly amongst the repetitiveness of the forest.
The wood on the fence creaked do not enter, which only confirmed to me that adventure awaited ahead. The dusty rope tie of the latch was undone and the trespass instantly transformed into a playground of discovery. The sun was now fully charged, the shadows of the pines no longer encroached, the skies clear and open, a perfect resolution for a sight to behold.
To a boy from the city, this might as well have been entering an alternate dimension. Horses danced together playfully, cows congregated in masses engulfing their youth that still depended on udders, chickens raced to peck the most maize, goats mischievously plotted on ways to climb, bulls puffed their chest out in a show of dominance, and the birds were a reminder that I was not the only spectator in attendance.
A cow was led out of their huddle and was ready to commence the morning ritual. Clay mugs the color of earth were the instruments used to carry the deed. The milk was sprayed out up to the brim, until foam oozed out the top of the mugs. The perfect source of protein or a mustache. The aromas changed the space I had entered. I was now in the finest café in Mexico, following the steam of freshly baked bread, feeling the richness of chocolate on my tongue, and hearing the burning sound of alcohol fizzling in the mug, down my throat, and down to my stomach.
The ritual was completed, together with all the elements that fulfilled one. Family, custom, tradition, are what makes it sacred, and the euphoria from the alcohol adds the forbidden that all rituals tend to have. To this day, I still dream of the gate closing shut, telling me not to enter, like an invitation for an adventure, yet to come again.
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