walled-en

He stands outside, in his driveway, and stares across the street at the wall. His house is in Texas, a few hundred feet from Mexico. His father was born a Mexican citizen, delivered by a midwife in the very same house, years ago, of course, before the Rio Grande redirected itself and turned what was then Mexico into what is, now, the United States. Levees have been built, since, so that the river, the one-time line of demarcation, will never, would never, again, pull that sort of passport-boggling trick. But, now stands, there, the wall, as much a necessity, some believe, as he thinks an insult. He looks at it, gazes at it mostly in the mornings, as he leaves for work. By night, he’s too tired to think about anything but dinner and a cold beer. But those mornings he does marvel at the idea of the anniversary recently celebrated over the fall of the wall in Berlin and this one, here. He tries to discern a difference, but he sees little dissimilarity between the two.