The rocks would live on, layers of sand and water gradually inching their way toward the sky long after we had passed through and left this earth for good.
My mother lived in fear of being found, she had to learn a new language and culture; she sacrificed seeing her children grow to give them a better future, but she wasn’t chased and persecuted like a criminal.
I cover my baby up in a torn, fuzzy blanket, I protect from the elements much greater, for us such fanciful specs on the expansive oceans, beneath the ceaseless skies, the wind’s ferocity, I breathe and struggle blanketing my tiny tot.
There’s a peculiarly modern kind of alienation built into losing in a contest deemed by the authorities to be fair. It’s enough to make you think unkind thoughts about whether the people who planned the game...
A lumpy couch squatted in one of the corners. Someone had tossed a thin blanket and a pillow on top of it. Otherwise, the living room was devoid of furniture. Darlene pointed towards the couch. “You three can fight over who gets to sleep there. Otherwise, the floor is available. I’m off to bed.”
The flight from Seattle to Paris was in autumn but we were exhausted, broke and travel weary, seeking the shelter of our makeshift English base, not the euphoria of Paris. We could be turned back or detained and deported.
Retired from dictating, Pinochet spent the mid-1990s cruising around Santiago in one of the three cars, a security measure should the convoy be attacked by one of his many enemies.
Graffiti magically appeared on the walls of the federal detention center: "FUCK ICE" and "DEATH TO ICE" and "FUCK DONALD TRUMP" but also farewell messages like "LOVE YOU DADDY."
