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In the
Estados Unidos de América
, Mamá says, the women wear red rouge
on their cheeks, and drape themselves in extravagant materials. The
streets are unsullied by dirt or waste, rather, they gleam, spotless
under the light of the
luna
. It’s noisy alright, she laughs, but the sounds
of the big city come together to form an astonishing harmony of taxi
horns, flashing cameras and sociable chatter. Everything is bigger,
brighter! Buildings grow towards the sky, she proclaims, energetically
raising her arms up toward the cerulean sheet which is dotted with
tiny, iridescent diamonds – she smiles and lets her eyes close in
euphoric reminiscence, sighing,
paradíso
. I sit patiently, legs crossed,
longing for her to continue with this fantastical recollection of a
dream. She opens her eyes nearly unwillingly – as if entranced –
edges herself closer tome and gently pulls me onto her lap – the sand
from the bottom of my
falda
falling upon her coffee-coloured legs.
She smells familiar – like Pears soap and paella. We stare out to sea,
waiting for Eduardo. One day,
mi amor
, she whispers, brushing the
rogue curls away from my face, one day. I unwind her arms from
around my waist and stand up. I start to spin. Spinning so the sky
twirls like when you mix
Sangria
with a straw. Even after I stop
spiralling the sky keeps going. Mamá laughed. I fell to the ground.
If you head away from the industrialised city centre – away from
where South America meets the North – and take a right turn on
Corredeur Sur, you will find a diminished coastal community. Small,
fragmented houses line the ascending dirt road – makeshift tin
roofs producing intolerable heat inside during our tropical season.
The lone, dirt street is littered with russet whiskey bottles and
flattened cardboard boxes. Plastic bags crunch as they flap in the
breeze like national flags – caught in the Alfajía trees. A single
shopping trolley is parked at the top of the hill – a form of
entertainment for the children alongside an ancient, discarded sofa
that is placed purposefully in order for the adults to watch their
children fly down the hill, only to end up in a giggling heap after
toppling into the sand pile. From my house you can hear the waves
breaking from the Gulf of Panama – the ocean dispersing all of its
debris from faraway places, along our abandoned coastline. Last year,
Miguel and I found a body there. I told Padre we should call the
policia
but he chided me and told me that it had probably drifted
from the Américas anyway, and it wasn’t our cross to bear. He
reacted the same way when Eduardo never came home from work,
La Frontera
Annabel Rodway
Future Leader’s
Writing Prize
Finalist
12