7/7/20

By Josh Rubin

It’s like treading water. You don’t get anywhere, but if the waters ever recede, you’ll still be around.

For now the waters are rising. Asylum is no more. The Matamoros encampment is shut to new arrivals and the refugees cower behind fences, wading through the deluge of southern downpours, and Covid at the gates.

The crisis at the border has bled into seas of racism and inequality and the enemy we picked out of dozens has locked arms with the rest, and tear gas drifts with the westerlies this worst of all summers.

It’s like treading water, but my hands are tied by fear of my own death, and my sodden face-mask reminds me of my stale breath and my muffled voice. And we are daily reminded of the pessimistic wisdom that intones how it will get worse before it gets better proves with every passing day that at least the first part is true.

My lips just above water for little sips of air.

Stay alive, dear comrades. There will be much to do.