Solito

by Javier Zamora

Here, like in Tecún, at night I stare at the ceiling, waiting for something to fall on my bed—a cockroach in my mouth, a spider on my eye, a scorpion at my feet. There’s no mosquito net hanging on top of my bed like back home. Grandpa isn’t here to talk to me before falling asleep, to go out for walks and explore the town, and because of that I feel alone, lonely, solo, solito, solito de verdad.

“It’s okay, caminá,” she says, like we say back home: caminá. The old lady is still laughing. I can hear her through the crowd. I feel terrible. ¿Are we gonna be ok? ¿Is she gonna call the cops? She knows we’re Salvadoran. Guanacos. Cerotes. Majes. Chambrosos. Chiflados. Cachimbones. There’s a pupusa on our foreheads.

We’re walking again. Mice or bunnies sometimes cross our paths. Bats overhead. If I see them, I say they’re my pets. I do the same with the strangers: we’re all a family. Dad in front of me. Mom and Sister in front of him. The Six are my immediate family. I have so many faceless cousins, uncles, and aunts. Uncle #22 drifts off to the side to take a piss in the bushes. Aunt #6 steps to the side to take a sip of water. We push forward like a snake.

La Migra has helicopters. They have trucks. They have binoculars that can see in the dark. I want our own helicopter to fight against La Migra. To shoot those bad gringos making us scared.

It’s dark outside the window. After a few minutes, another house on another dirt road. I look for a red one with three trees in front. Two vans. It’s hard to see. The adults keep talking. ¿What’s gonna happen? We had to make it this time. I might never see my parents. I don’t want to sleep in that cage. I don’t want to sleep without Carla and Patricia. I want my parents. I want a real bed. I want McDonald’s and snow and a swimming pool. I don’t want to walk the desert ever again.