The weekly events had become something close to routine.My job had been labled Project Facilitator and I had become satisfyed with doing just that, facilitating.The desire to participate had gone away. It departed soon after I learned of my father's diagnosis of Non-Hodgkin's Follicular Lymphoma.
It was the last Wednesday I would spend in Matamoros, the last team I would lead, and my last trip to the dump.
*
The dump, you may wonder what type of place this was or what types of things were found there. It is a place of filth and death. A terrain that streches out for miles, covered with trash and vile waste. What was I doing there, breathing smoke and surounded by swarms of flyes. Well, I was bringing hope or atleast trying. The stench seemed to smack me in the face, I stopped and what I saw was painful.
There was a girl around twelve digging through rubbish looking for her type of gold. I worked along side of her for about an hour. As we pushed through, I noticed she didn't hesitate the way I did. Her hands weren't afraid of what they might touch. Maybe they had befor or maybe they never had. I looked down at my feet and saw a decomposing cow, I shuttered.
*
Later I ran to get something I had left, not forgot, but rather left. It was a brick, the word MEXICO imprinted on the front. There I was running. A moment later I was on the ground, covered in dust from my feet up. The fall was unexpected, shocking, and sudden. There was no stumble or trip, but simply a fall, flat on my face.
I took a quick look around to be sure no one had seen my fall and then stould up. Thoughts disoriented and struggling to regain dirrection, I walked forward. My hands and knees were bleeding and my eyes choking back tears.
*
He was walking toward me. I hadn't seen him before, but now I did.He was pushing a cart and it was filled with trash he intended to sell. There were words coming from his mouth, but my brain had not recovered from the fall so I couldn't understand them.Perhaps if they were in English i would have been ready, but they weren't. As he came closer I could hear the words "queres agua?" "queres agua?" No words were leaving my mouth because my brain was thinking to hard. "Why is he offering me his water he knows I am a gringa. He knows we don't drink from the same place." I replyed "no gracias, muchos gracias." As I walked past him he followed me. I was a little uneasy. Then he said "pour sous manos" Quickly I tried to reply with a no, but thank you very much, but before my words were finished, he had pulled my hands into his and begun to pour water over them.The blood and dirt didn't stop him and neither did my words. Un poquito, un poquito. He kept on washing my hands until all of his water was gone. After he had finished he reached in the cart and pulled out a wrag, wiped the left over dirt and blood from my hands and turned to go. I fumbled through my spanish to try and find words worth saying. All I could find was "gracias, muchas gracias"
*
My walls began to fall. The ones I had built so carefully.