This is so that people will remember

 

 

That you were born in Chihuahua

when the nation was at war with itself

That you were the youngest daughter of five

That you were the middle child of ten

That your eyes were green and your hair light brown

That you were the one who smiled

That your sisters told you that they loved you the most

 

This is so that people will remember

That you spent your short life migrating

From Chihuahua to El Paso to la Ciudad de México

That your young life was shaped by Revolution

and economic crisis

And the day to day wonders

Of your mother’s tortillas and your baby brother’s eyes

 

This is so that people will remember

That your mother died when you were ten

That when your father left you

He crossed the border to drink himself to death

That your sisters cried each night alone

Missing your mother’s touch, her soft gaze

 

This is so that people will remember

That you were not alone

That a million others joined you

Pushed out of the land of opportunity

by violence and poverty and hope that

Somewhere else would be better

 

This is so that people will remember

That your last thoughts were of sitting at the kitchen table

Listening to your mother hum softly as she cooked

That the pain in your stomach could not

drown out the memories

Of walking home from school laughing

That at the end you let go without fear

 

This is so that people will remember

That somewhere in this massive city lay your bones

Laid to rest so many decades ago

In an unmarked grave in the sacred ground of Tenochtitlan

That for seventy years your sisters cried

To have left you so far from home.

 

Mexico City

June 29, 2004