Sitting in the shade of the front steps, listening to Pancho talk about his tia's battle with cancer definitely stirs some emotion in my soul. He tells me about the effects of chemotherapy on her body and soul, and then balances it with the rituals she also participates in to cleanse her soul. Both take a heavy toll on her, and I can see that her demise is beginning to take a toll on Pancho. During the past 12 or 13 years that we have been friends, Pancho has become more in touch with his indigenous side through his tia by attending the danzas and temazcales she hosts in the mountains near La Rumorosa. He says that she seems to be more at peace with death these days, so maybe that is helping him a little, too; but death is a tricky thing and it always leaves ghosts, like shadows on the soul. He is in for a wild ride, and since he has help me over the past five years deal with my mother's cancer, her stroke, and eventual death, it is now time for me to do the same for him.
All I really wanted to do was get my breaks fixed. Jose had Thursday off, which he uses to help out friends with their cars, so I picked up Pancho and we headed to San Ysidro. Jose's house means beer, food, music, meeting new people, discussions about history, sociology, education, and even some some solid mechanics, but it moves at its own pace. "Can you wait a few minutes? Voy a cambiar el aceite de una amiga. Ella ya esta en camino y despues cambio tus frenos. No te preocupes, you got time. You don't pick up your kids from school until three, verdad?" "Yeah, como sea." What else am I supposed to say. Pancho points to the Tecate in his hand and I agree. As long as I'm going to be there for a few hours, i might as well have at least one beer, but at 10:30 in the morning I feel a bit like I'm back in my 20s living on Broadway with Guyo and my brother. Nostalgia is nice, and just a few days earlier I had the pulling desire for a beer at 10 in the morning, but didn't give in because there things to get done. Beer was for later. But in Sidro, with nowhere else to go, its easy to give in.
Al fin, llego la morra con totopos, ceviche, y mas cerveza. Jose wasn't going to even look at my truck for another hour, at least, so I might as well have another beer. And the conversation goes to Texas and Arizona, Mexicali, and a few steps south over the fence into Tijuana. Pinche cerca, we probably would have ended up in Dandys en la calle sexta por la Revu and never would have fixed my truck if it wasn't for that wall and all those officers and soldiers strutting around in their government issue uniforms with their guns, dogs, and laws that don't recognize the lives of everyday people here. So we stand and sit around eating ceviche and aguacate, drinking cold Tecates on a clear blue day, and things get taken apart and put back together.
Pancho works on deconstructing the past year and his tia's journey toward death and in doing so, he begins taking out pieces of his heart and lays them on the concrete next to a half empty bowl of cevice. He pokes at it a little bit and goes for another beer. I still can't touch it, and when he returns with two more beers he reaches in and pulls out chunk of his soul a little bigger than a baseball. It is uneven and examines it from all different angles using his eyes, his memories, and his words; finally, he begins to hear the music in there. The chants. The broken drum. The dusty weekend. La reunion. A conversation. And he stares off into nothing, possibly seeing more of the universe than the rest of us, but moments like that put a person in tune with something unseen and unscientific.
I turn to him and say, "Right now, at this moment, you made me realize someting about my mom's death. She was there for to bring me into the world and I was there for her when she was ready to leave it. That's the cycle of life." "Simon," he says, "You were lucky you were able to hold her hand as she passed. It takes a lot of strength to do that." "Yeah, I guess so. Maybe that's what you can do for your tia, he can help her into the next world." We both stare at my truck, lop-sided from the floor jack and missing one of the tires. Jose's drinking another beer, "No te preocupes, I'll be done in time for you to pick up your kids."
I guess it was a good day to get my brakes fixed.
i really like this.
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