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17 Caught in the Eye of the Sun I watch the cobblestones climb each other as I walk, head down in the heat, repeating: say it isn’t María, my sister. Say it’s the other, my grandmother, whom my father, a country away, is calling about. I want to say, here in Guanajuato, the silver city known for its mummies, the soul of Cervantes has taken my grandmother with him. Taken her yellow eyes and spindly hair and left a painted sugar skull in honor of her smile. By the time I reach the phone booth, my prayer will begin to be answered. I’ll have bargained like the boy in the zócalo selling mangos and plastic jewelry, holding in each hand a fist of trinkets, the ones he wants me to take raised higher. ...

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