One year is 1/60 th. of an average life span in my beautiful Mexico. One might be inclined to think that life remains almost unchanged over such a short period of time. Nevertheless, life has changed a lot over the last year. My hometown has become a ghostly shadow of itself.
A year ago, it was a common occurrence to go out dinning with friends; chasing the food with a few shots and a walk, beer in hand, on the sandy beaches of our Miramar. Sundays were started with breakfast at home and noon mass was followed by a short drive out of town to enjoy the river or lagoon bank, where the afternoon was spent at some fresh sea food restaurant watching the kids play, the boats sail and the beer bottles dry.
Today, I readily cower at home short before the sunset with an --perhaps morbid-- eye on the twitter updates in order to know where the daily shootout is happening. Sundays have become the melancholic memory of a short lasting past that found death at the hands of a violent present. I guess the kids still play, the boats still sail and the beer bottles dry, somewhere far south from the Mexican--USA border.
In one year, the political campaigns of those guys running for the Mexican presidency will be all over the news and, most probably, there will be nothing to say about us, the North. Even today, there's nothing to say about us. News are spread by twitter, emails, and common gossiping at non-public places.
Years come and go. One by one. Each one of them makes the difference for one and many. This year of mine is getting to an end. I hope the next one is filled with friends, dinners, shots, walks, kids playing, boats sailing and beer bottles drying.
God bless us all, but first of them all those who are fighting so they can find Him on their hearts and stop this useless war. God bless and touch them this and every year.
A year ago, it was a common occurrence to go out dinning with friends; chasing the food with a few shots and a walk, beer in hand, on the sandy beaches of our Miramar. Sundays were started with breakfast at home and noon mass was followed by a short drive out of town to enjoy the river or lagoon bank, where the afternoon was spent at some fresh sea food restaurant watching the kids play, the boats sail and the beer bottles dry.
Today, I readily cower at home short before the sunset with an --perhaps morbid-- eye on the twitter updates in order to know where the daily shootout is happening. Sundays have become the melancholic memory of a short lasting past that found death at the hands of a violent present. I guess the kids still play, the boats still sail and the beer bottles dry, somewhere far south from the Mexican--USA border.
In one year, the political campaigns of those guys running for the Mexican presidency will be all over the news and, most probably, there will be nothing to say about us, the North. Even today, there's nothing to say about us. News are spread by twitter, emails, and common gossiping at non-public places.
Years come and go. One by one. Each one of them makes the difference for one and many. This year of mine is getting to an end. I hope the next one is filled with friends, dinners, shots, walks, kids playing, boats sailing and beer bottles drying.
God bless us all, but first of them all those who are fighting so they can find Him on their hearts and stop this useless war. God bless and touch them this and every year.
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