The sunlight washed over her hands.
It was after all, reliable. She knew it would greet her every morning in Tijuana Mexico.
Her husband however, would not.
Sitting alone in her den, she held onto the vase he had given her, one morning, long ago.
It was simple, but it was a part of her.
As the sun slowly penetrated her pores, she couldn't help but to reminisce his voice.
"My love, we have a baby on the way, and no money to feed it; you know where I must go for employment"
She knew very well, for they were simple people, who lacked education, and needed to make ends meet, however necessary.
At the memory she wept.
"No, no mi esposo, you know how dangerous this is"
They sit together in that memory, holding that vase with fingers intertwined.
"I must go to the fields to process cocaína, I must provide for mi familia, and I know no other way mi mujer."
For a while, they wept together, then her husband whispered,
"lirio de los valles"
Her weeping increased. She had never seen the Lily of the valley before. She had been told of its beauty. She also knew of its poison, and it's nick name "our lady's tears."
The gift was symbolic indeed. Metaphoric to what they, as la familia, were about to embark on.
A son they bore together, and he was a healthy boy.
The cartel brought food and money to them regularly. For years this happened like clockwork, and for years she longed for his arrival home to la familia.
One day the cartel arrived with no money or food.
Her throat was a knot, so tight a tear would not fall. She knew her husband was dead. She was a woman of composure, until they told her 10 year old son to come with them.
She became sanctimonious in her protests.
"You will not! No, not mi niño!"
She was slapped to the floor in a manner reminiscent of a fly being swatted.
And they took him..
Her son is now a man, 20 years of age, and the cartel still brings her what she needs.
She doesn't care though. Sometimes she doesn't even answer the door. They leave the delivery on the porch, and everyone knows not to touch it.
The cartel took her family from her, and now her only longing,
Is to be with the morning sun,
Clutching her vase,
And whispering the words:
"lirio de los valles"
While a tear slowly falls...
The End.
My first thought when I saw this photograph was in relation to the cartels, and how families are torn apart, and lives are lost everyday as a result of their power and greed. I was emotionally attached while writing this, and the feelings I derived during the journey of this fictional composition were very powerful. I hope you are moved or touched by this in some way. Thank you so much for reading!
(Lily of the valley is a real flower, and the details pertaining to the flower in the story are factual)
(Tijuana is also a place I regularly frequented as a young Marine stationed in California. It's right over the border next to San Diego California. The community is poverty stricken, and overrun with drugs and crime.)
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