The scorching desert sun was setting behind the Sandia Mountains when I landed in Albuquerque, Nuevo Mexico.
Una ciudad en el desierto.
The dry heat of the Southwest was familiar to my skin.
Our family of 6 made several annual road trips leaving behind the harsh Chicago winters
of the midwest en route to Mexico tracing the highway veins of the southwest: Illinois,
Missouri, Oklahoma, Arkansas, Texas, Nuevo Leon, San Luis Potosi and Guanajuato.
Two days to reach the border crossing at Laredo, TX and one more day driving through
the rugged sierras to reach Michoacan.
D and I dined at Frontier on Route 66. At the counter, I was asked the state question: “Red or Green?”
“Can I have one of each?”
“Yes, Christmas—you absolutely can.”
“Christmas”— the pairing of red and green enchiladas—was something I knew well but never in one dish.
At the cusp where North Oakland meets Berkeley stood a pastel, peachy-pink shoe box of a building. Its pink stucco walls reminded me of the house that held my earliest memories in Mexico— the home where my father eventually retired. That whimsical Dingbat apartment on King Street became my home during the summer of 2023.
12/2023
Le pedí que me llevara hasta lo más alto del rancho
Hasta la cima de la sierra, donde se cosecha camote y vive el Pochote
Dejamos atrás las calles pavimentadas de cemento
para entrar a los pulmones de los cerros
Saludamos a los ejidos, las cabañas de madera y casas moldeadas en adobe
Tierra rocosa, color canela
El Jeep dio paso a senderos desconocidos,
Con cada paso dejando huellas en el las curvas angosto
Al llegar a la loma, el sol mañanero se estiraba detrás de los cerros
Se quedó mirando en silencio y me preguntó “En qué estará pensando?”
Desde allí se podía ver nuestros vecinos
