6/10/21

By Josh Rubin

The wind does not stop at the border. Guns and walls and troops and concertina wire barely ripple the currents of whatever river remains along that line. Although it is drawn on the earth, it disappears from a distance, out of sight from the foothills of the Franklin Mountains, the division of El Paso and Juarez blurring before the eyes.

The line is fateful. It is invisible from space, but it carves a chasm through the hearts of many. Many lives are lost to its depth. It is a gun on the table, the one that Chekov tells us will be fired before the play is over. It is a jagged crack in a broken heart.

A lottery ticket decides which side you are on. That little cage full of numbered ping pong balls is rotated and a ball pops out to tell you which side of the border you will be entitled to stand on. To be born on. And it may decide that your path will be legal or illegal. Or hungry or not.

Stand on the border, and listen to the wind.