Reflections by Michael Seifert, from the northern bank of the Rio Grande River, Brownsville, Texas
I was on a stroll through downtown Brownsville. As I crossed the street, I tossed my keys up into the air, catching them, because I liked the word and the idea, with élan-with that grace that comes from the joy of living in the middle of a good day.
My smooth moves didn’t survive a second toss, though, and the keys fell, tinklingly, through the metal grate of a storm drain in the middle of the street. On my hands and knees, I peered down into the gloom beneath the grate, and could see them there, mired in ooze.
As I fished them out, I was shocked at how something that was mostly metal could carry stink so well. The gunk that covered the ring of keys reminded me of death, spoke to me of rot, and made my skin crawl.
I wrapped them up in newspaper, and made my way home, and did not think again about the storm drains that run under our streets.
Until yesterday, when I heard the story of Silvia.
Silvia is a Mexican national, a lovely, proud woman that I have known for fifteen years. She lives in Matamoros, Mexico, the city that is just a short walk across the bridge from Brownsville. Her children and her grandchildren and her great grandchildren all live on this side of the river, in Brownsville. For years, on each Friday afternoon, she would finish up her work in Matamoros, pack a small bag, and walk across the bridge to Brownsville. She had a tourist visa, she had her home, bought and paid for in Mexico, and she had the loves of her life just a short walk away.
