Solito A Memoir Quotes

I never found out what happened to Chele, or to any of the countless others who were with me. I fear they died in the Sonoran Desert. This book is for them and for every immigrant who has crossed, who has tried to, who is crossing right now, and who will keep trying.

It's dusk almost completely night, and right there is the ocean. The stars begin to dot the sky. I like to think there's a giant holding the earth in one hand, a needle in his other hand, poking the sky there, there, and there-

My hope for this book is that somehow it will reunite me with Chino, Patricia, and Carla, that I will find out what happened to them after we separated and learn what their lives have been like in this country. I don't believe I ever thanked them. I want to thank them now, as an adult, for risking their lives for a nine-year-old they did not know.

Patricia and Carla look like they're sleeping. I can't see the whites of their eyes. We look like a matchbox. Sticks on top of each other. A human cake. I'm the cherry on top, the smallest one riding on the carpet. I'm Aladdin. I finally made it through the desert.

I love looking for the big white moon. Seeing it change. It's better than looking at my watch. The moon has been up there watching me since the dawn I said goodbye to Abuelita, Mali, Lupe, Julia, the dog, the cat, and my parakeet. It was there with Grandpa, when Marcelo left us, when Chele and Mario ran. It reminds me of all of them. Polleros said there wouldn't be a moon, but they're wrong. Like a slice of watermelon bitten to the rind, it showed up over the mountains to our right. I like its gray light before the sun paints the dawn, our clothing changing from black to gray to blue like we're chameleons.

Then everyone in The Six says the same thing: "¡Faaaak!" We scream from the pits of our bellies. Up our throats. Out of our wide-open mouths. We can't stop laughing. I still don't know what it means. First, I hoped the cars would stop. Now, a part of me hopes they keep driving so we keep yelling: "¡FAAAAKKKK!

The sound of the wooden oar entering the water is calming. Like water taking a breath.

We are coral. Rocks at the bottom of the ocean. ¿What's it gonna be like during the day? Coco Liso didn't promise a van at sunrise. We're walking until sunset. Looking for Rhino Mountain. Chino comes back faster, a giant fish swimming toward us.

My legs almost feel normal, except my shins feel like someone is squeezing them hard, like I'm in the middle of a river and water is rushing around me. My headaches are almost completely gone. Just one more day. One more walk. We leave tomorrow at dusk, Ramón said. Always at dusk in the desert. Sunrises, sunsets, I'm starting to hate them both.

The adults asked Don Dago about it, but he said it was mentira, pajas, chambre, porquería. That is was the Guatemalan police spreading rumors, paying locals to scare people like us '"migrantes" is what the locals call us. A word that's hard to say. The gran to the tes like a mountain that's hard for my tongue to climb. A word like there's salt water in my throat.

My hands are drenched. I check my watch constantly. I stare at the short pollero's thin gold chains around his neck. His shirt and pants aren't as tight as the other pollero's, who walked outside minutes ago. Then the ring against the door, tap, tap, tap. I stand up before the door opens. The door unlocks. Tarsi is awake, and he watches me. His mom smiles and stands up with me. The door opens, a bright flash. My name booms throughout the room. Two shadows appear. At last.

Then we stop. "¡Down!" Coco Liso almost yells. We crouch. Pick a bush. I hold my breath. It sounds like an ocean wave is approaching the shore. A loud crash. Then it keeps crashing, but softer and softer until we can't hear it anymore. Shhhhhh. It quiets down like sand absorbing water, fizzling, "Car," people whisper. ¿A car? ¿That was a car? ¡It sounded like the ocean! I look at Carla, who looks at me. Her eyes are big. I smile. She smiles back. I look at Chino, and he nods, doing his lip thing, meaning he thinks it's cool también. We wait until there aren't any noises. We move again. People look back and whisper, "Stay low." I don't have to. Most bushes are taller than me. At most, I tilt my head. Carla has to bend a little, but she's also not that tall. The road is real. We hear it. We crouch from Crayon bush to Cheerleader bush. Past Fuzzies and Lonelies. We stop when we hear a wave forming, nearing, crash - then it fizzles away. I love it. ¡This is the ocean! The asphalt road is the ocean water, the cars the waves.

When the bats eat the moths and the lamps turn on, we walk back to Don Carlo's storefront and watch TV.

My chest like hummingbirds fighting for the hibiscus in Abuelita's garden.

The sun peeks above the hills, but it's almost gone below the horizon, painting everything bright red, deep orange, pink, lavender. It's like all of the dust behind our truck flew to the sky. With the sunset, the dirt road turns a bright orange for a few minutes. Then there's an opening. A clearing without any bushes. The ground redder and redder, brilliant, almost like blood.

The bushes are bright green briefly, then change to darker greens. The sky above us turns the color of rocks, then darker and darker blue. Over where the sun was, the horizon is red, deep orange, and yellow. The ground quickly changes from the color of my skin to blood to mud to gray. The air smells like sawdust mixed with water.

I'm sweating, but sweat doesn't stay on my skin - the air licks it away fast. Stray dogs wander the street. I get closer to Patricia; I don't want them to be the German shepherds from the desert. The orange dirt, the dust kicked up. We're back in México, where we were yesterday.

Now all of us are laughing in our own white sheets: our private boats or white-sand islands in the middle of a terracotta-colored ocean.

Walk close to the man," Patricia tells Carla, loud enough for the man to hear. Then Patricia turns her head and looks at me. "Closer," she says, pulling me toward her. My face is a tongue-lick away from her backpack. Chino rests his free hand on my shoulder. Tries to flick my ear. "Stop," I say, looking back, and he smiles, his teeth bright like the moon should be, but it's nowhere. Behind him, the first stars poke through the dark-blue, almost black sky.

I haven't been lifted over a fence in a while. I like it; it makes me feel like I'm a giant hopping over fences. Now I just wait for Chino to grab me under my armpits and I fly over the barbs, my legs close to my chest like I'm a frog. ¡Sa-sa-sapo!

Mom to my left, Dad to my right, a mosquito net like a crown covering all of us.

We nod, and I notice stars beginning to pop behind his head.

It's 5:35 PM. We've been here since the sun was on the other side of the sky. We keep drinking water, but my tongue feels dry. My throat has ants inside it scratching the punching bag at the back of my mouth.

All of us rise from the dirt that's more and more become our mattress. We're wearing our shirt-hoods again, our chamarras tied around our waists. The air heats up. The moon is about to crash into the mountain. It's nine A.M., and my watch's plastic band begins to burn. I'll keep it on. I have to know the time when I see my parents.

Time to dream." Chino taps my arms. Small birds chirp in the distance. The desert is awake. I take my chamarra off to use as a pillow. The dirt is cool. I shake to get deeper into the dirt like we've seen birds do, and I close my eyes.

I smile and keep nodding, imagining my parents' hands. Their house. Their lawn. Their garden. Their swimming pool and cars. I want The Four to meet my parents. I look over at Patricia and Carla. At Chino. I'm gonna say goodbye to them soon. The sun is a bit over the center of the sky, shining in every direction. Our shadows are so small, but they touch. We're one big shadow. Our own family. I hope we rest a long time.

She and Abuelita have been using the word more and more. Trip this, trip that. Trip trip trip. I can feel the trip in the soles of my feet. I see it in my dreams.

In between each scream, a long pause. Like he's dying. My chest like a piece of ice about to break.

When the cigarette butts are thrown off the balcony, the men walk back inside. I stay on the cement boat floating in the air, alone, standing on the lowest rung of the balcony's metal frame. I feel tall. Powerful. Like an adult. I can control the wind. The waves. The people on the beach who look like fruit flies in a garbage heap. I grab the balcony harder. With each push I make them move. I can make stars appear and disappear. My right index finger is the needle I poke the earth with. I squeeze the metal. Squeeze it harder so the people can dance.

The engine rattles, and we feel each of the rocks against our butts. The sunset and a cloud of dust behind us. The sky a bucket of water poured on the sun. The air is still hot. Bats don't show up just yet. The barks and crows get softer and softer until we can't hear them.

Chino grabs my hand. Presses his fingers into my skin. A hot comb. I feel his heartbeat. My throat closes. I dig my other hand into the cold dirt like soccer cleats. The pebbles press against my skin. Some bits shine in the moonlight. Flickering. I forgot about them.

We look like leaf-cutter ants in Abuelita's garden, but instead of holding bitten leaves over our heads, we carry our black backpacks.

We stand by the road, the banana trees on either side, raindrops still on the leaves, sliding down, dropping to the ground. It rained earlier in the day, but these drops haven't evaporated. Grandpa's eyes are doing the same, trying to hold his tears inside their corners. Grandpa who I got used to sleeping next to. He's no Mali, but he tried.

Di solito ne ascolto uno in macchina e me ne porto dietro un altro dovunque vada. Non si può mai sapere quando servirà un momento di evasione.