“Unlocking the Secrets of ‘Streams’: Marcos Reyna’s Journey Through Time and Memory”
IV. Clovis, 1983
Hear the train. Its distant horn, the rumbling earth. It wakes us every morning at the homestead where I spend my first fatherless Christmas. The whole extended family is there, crammed into a two-room house. Grandma rises early to make breakfast while barefoot children form a line at the comal, taking butter slathered tortillas, faces and fingers shining with grease. I knew then that he wasn’t coming back. The tÃos and tÃas talked and said that at the funeral, I wore a small, boxy sportscoat and stood in front of the casket. On Christmas morning, we sat under the tree and unwrapped gifts, and at night, trains passed through the darkness, pulsing our beds. Engines that woke us. Engines that rocked us to sleep.
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