“The Crossing,” Grist: A Journal for Writers, Issue Four, 2011

“I closed my eyes.  Kendra’s small hands moved over my shoulders.  I tried to imagine Wednesday.  The snap of handcuffs, mug shots and fingerprinting, the day or two awaiting deportation.  And after?  I wanted to believe Yolanda and Hector would return to their ancestral village, back to the provincial charm of the small hamlet I’d imagined for them, the mariachi music and the molasses pace of an unhurried life.  I believed it, I hoped it, and that image seemed to obscure a nagging question I couldn’t answer as I’d watched Yolanda empty my trash can that morning.  Why had she crossed that border?  Why had she come here?”