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| 72 Invisible The stone stairs down to the cellar are a way out of the story, its beating music left behind by startled pigeons that survived the smoke in the cathedral, the blinding sun in the Juárez plaza sending you across the bridge, the red glare of noon swallowing forgiveness. The playground was lit in bright sun and sweat, the boys hitting the ball until it was your turn and you hit the only home run in your life, driving in three runs and winning the game. They ignored you after that because the Mexican on the team was not supposed to round the bases, but strike out instead. The border was rained on for years. Your brother wasn’t there, stepping through mud because it is for the oldest son missing from the city. What this brings is caked designs on muddy hands darker than an absent father, the rain pounding the roof as if he wanted to get in. The border was invisible for years. Your family was there being painted on city walls. When your ancestors rose from the dead, the border opened its barriers and everyone entered. What this has to do with you can be found on the glowing letters spray painted on the walls. When you were middle-aged, they carved puppets to honor you. ...

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