Two days ago I was sitting in Chalchuapa with a friend drinking chilate, a steaming corn drink, out of a gourd, watching the rain fall late evening. Flower venders are taking down their stands, all the food carts wheeled away, the umbrellas folded up, all of this packed into old houses with long windows and high ceilings. One day before Day of the Dead, which might be one of the most beautiful days in Latin America.
The next day I am on a bus back to my tiny village, packed full of farmers, crying children, and little old ladies, leaving the city at night. Supposedly they killed this guy close to my community. And would you believe they did this with a machete? Chopped off his hands, a huge gash from spine to collarbone, and a stab mark in the chest. I am going back for the vela, where we will stay up all night drinking coffee, eating sweet break, singing songs, bored, talking, tired. The poor family. Can you believe it?
I walk home late at night and from a hillside see the city lights blinking. Ahuachapán, Santa Ana, Atiqizaya. These places are far away. I reflect back on the States, my family, how these years give me time to step back and re-examine my life, but also death. What a crazy way to die. Poor brother—he was the one who found him in the fields. Could you handle that? I would die too, seeing my brother, dead.
But today is a new day. And I am going to Panama soon.
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