Literary El Paso

Manuel V

305 Manuel Vélez Poet Manuel Vélez was born in Salinas, California, and moved to El Paso at the age of sixteen. He earned a B.A. in theatre arts and an M.F.A. in creative writing from the University of Texas at El Paso. Vélez was assistant professor of English at El Paso Community College where he established the Chicana/o Studies Program and served as an adjunct professor at UTEP. His collection Bus Stops and Other Poems was the first publication of Calaca Press of California. Currently, he teaches at San Diego Mesa College in the Department of Chicano Studies, where he has also been project director for an NEH-funded lecture series. From Bus Stops and Other Poems: Memories Fade Night descends upon the room like thick blankets, covers light with a cold that comforts my skin. Abuelita in her room whispers a rosary, its soft words escape her lips, brush like wind through walls, settle on my bed like dust. In the kitchen papá’s voice raises, carries with it the pain that has landed like blackbirds on his chest, tries desperately to reach the voice inside the phone. Still, it cannot hide the sound of mamá’s tears like waves crashing on a distant beach. 306 I lie on my bed, stare into the nothing of my room, think of the tío who visited only once a year like a circus; full of color of smells, of toys. I think of how he would arrive only at night, a quiet knock on the back door. Then the laughter that exploded from his body once he saw mamá, as if it had been trapped inside for so long and finally found the strength to escape. How his pants were always wet, how he smelled of fall, fresh and cold. How Papá always told me to keep an eye on the migra. Pon ojo, mijo. No dejes que se lleven a tu tío. How I would smile at this, feel important. Nod si papá with the deepest voice I had. I would take care of my tío, watch out for him while he was here. How every March I would count the days, wait for them to pass like rusted boxcars on trains, until that last week when I knew he would come, pick me up with a grunt and say, ya eres hombre, mijo. How we’d walk together down the street, me with my chest up trying hard to keep up with his steps, he with a smile big as the sun and a buenos días for everyone we passed. How he always sighed when we entered the cool of Lalo’s groceries, as if the heat outside was too much, and walk straight to the cooler for a six-pack of Bud. I would run down the familiar aisles until I found my section and pick my candies. 307 Memories begin to fade, are not as bright. Their colors stolen by mamá’s tears, by Abuelita’s prayers. Papá’s voice still on the phone, begins to shake as his own tears drown his eyes. He knows. Has heard the news he didn’t want to believe. Alfredo left his home three days ago. Said he would call as soon as he got to El Paso. Now there is no doubt. The story on the news. The body wrapped in blue and carried into a white truck by two men while others dressed in cold green look on. The cold voice of the newscaster who announced that the border patrol had found yet another body in the Rio Grande. The fourth one this year. Now there is no doubt that mamá’s scream, her hands flying to her face, her eyes widening like two full moons were right. They knew what we refused to believe. They knew even after Papá said it couldn’t be true. It could’ve been someone else. Alfredo was still in Casas Grandes. Papá would call to show her he was right. But something in his voice betrayed him. Something in the way he ran to the phone, tried to dial the line of numbers, dropped the phone, tried again until he finally put it to his ear and waited with heavy breath. Something told me that I would never hear my tío’s laughter, walk with him down...