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 by Rampujan

I will always remember this day in the old house by the road where they never stop rushing and roaring past here.  Inside it's quiet until Mother leaves the children by themselves and then Rosa and Carol bring out the glow-in-the-dark skull and turn out the lights and we laugh like madmen louder and stronger than the ceaseless trucks which carry millions of tons of goods and bads to Mexico and back past this old house that feels as if it will always be here, a piece of permanence in an ephemeral world.

Here is dust and sky and in between are geese "mating" under the palms: "Mating, Ram, not making love" -- Debbie tells me -- "When it's geese you call it mating," and it's true, it doesn't look like love, although it's not as strange as when ducks do it.

But the richies are moving in around here. The millionaires are oozing closer and closer, replacing the desert with sand traps on their golf courses.

Here on the road they call "Blood Alley" the ones that don't whiz by or die in their wrecked cars, break down in front of this house and if they are "illegals" (which is likely) they just sit there for hours waiting, gentle Mexican families awaiting the courage to ask for help from us sharp-tongued white skinned gavachos.

!Hijolee! What a spectacular adventure this life is for every one of us, yes even for the female goose pinned down in the dust, with each of us geting our turn, either here in the oasis or out there somewhere along "Blood Alley." From where I sit it's so easy to say that it's just great exactly the way it is, but then I haven't had my turn yet sitting out there in that broken-down car in a very hostile foreign country waiting for someone to help me or to lock me up in a detention camp. I'll stay right here, thank you, and watch the palm trees grow as the moon rises on a glorious night that I will always remember.

(Inscribed on a goose egg for an egg tree.)



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