Where Mexico Goes At Night

There was never a scarier moment than when my tio made those sharp turns toward the field and there was that moment when the jeep swiveled around and the darkness was so thick, the high beams could not tear through it quick enough. My tia was waiting for us in front of the hospital, pristine in her modest white nurses uniform. That night, however, we were late and the sky was twitching and protesting since the early evening. The moon was in its golden stages, a rarity not found most anywhere else. In Mexico, this shimmer of preciousness comes after the full moon and there was a bonfire and two tired, working shadows at the side of the rode.
When we got there, my tia was tucked under the single light in front of the hospital under the statue of Emiliano Zapata. She squinted and gave us a flick of her black hair until the other nurses had a ride home. The jeep brayed as we pulled it out of its awkward place. At the first stoplight, it rained. And there along the road were huddled figures over a fire.

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