The last time I went to Mexico was with my mother during the summer. It was a bright, white-hot day, the kind which is perfect for slipping into a shady restaurant patio for a beer (or two). We sauntered through the Mercado, poking our heads through the stands and picking through knick-knacks. Exploring the Mercado was my favorite things to do on weekends we spent in Juarez. It was noisy like a busy street; music seemed to come from everywhere. The colors were like a dream, some virtual hallucination; it felt hot, stuffy, sweaty, but I liked it. It felt intimate. I looked at the dresses and all the full, bright skirts; I studied the hammocks, pictured myself floating on one of those hand-made rainbows with a margarita in hand. I browsed the shoes hanging from the walls of one stand, huaraches like caramel slippers, smooth leather and braids. My mom sighed and said something about seeing better ones in Mesilla. In the end, I bought nothing. Nothing, that is, until I saw the young mother standing across the street.
She stood in the heavy sun, her long skirt making her look tilted in the warm breeze. She was so young, with watery eyes and a poignant, strong blue gaze. She seemed to be waiting for someone to walk by, and when we did she stepped forward and held something out to me, but said nothing. She had a small child strapped to her back with a small, round, sticky face snuggled to the nape of her neck- big eyes that seemed to be laughing at me. I reached out and took the earrings from her, they felt cool to the touch; they were made from smooth brown watermelon seeds woven together into a teardrop pattern, dotted with beads. They almost looked like fish hanging from hooks. They were nothing like the colors of the Mercado (save for a couple of turquoise beads), but they seemed, somehow, more colorful and elaborate than anything inside. I bought them, and a matching bracelet.
As we walked away my mother scoffed at me: “You know those women rent those babies to make people feel sorry for them, right?”
“You don’t know that,” I said under my breath as I cradled my new treasures in my glistening palm. “You don’t know that . . . for sure.”
We walked back to our car and made our way through the squealing breaks and unrelenting windshield washers that were the racket of the border. I had no idea then that it would be the last time I crossed that line. If I had known, I might have paid more attention, maybe I would have bought that rainbow hammock. I still have those earrings; I wear them all the time, and every time I pick them up, they still feel cool to the touch and they still look more bright and colorful than anything else in the room. Maybe wearing them makes me feel closer to the other side. Maybe it makes it easier for me to imagine that the woman and her rented baby are standing outside the Mercado door today, under the heavy sun, holding her collection of brown weaved-seed jewelry. Maybe when I wear them I feel as though I could close my eyes, tug them three times like some sort of ruby slippers, and find myself in the shade of the Mercado again, sipping a Corona and laughing like the flapping of birds’ wings- wings that know nothing of borders.
