I was living a most extraordinary situation under a most

fucked- up circumstance.

The constant chaos, rattle of automatic weapons, crippling fear

and the indiscriminate deterioration of our city kept me confined within my grandmother's house.

Still, this confinement didn't suffocate, in this place of light and air. And within its walls, the most palpable example of love was unfolding before me.

 

I couldn't possible understand what I had walked into,

the privilege that it was or what it meant. 

I was terribly self-involved, empty, angry, disoriented, sad, cynical, constantly gasping for breath, eager to stop the 

discomfort that devoured me.

Yet, the power of what manifested inside percolated without asking permission, without my knowing.

 

Through a lifetime of actions consciously and meticulously rooted in love, Adelisa, now 91, had solidly woven a most spectacular approach to living that was embedded into a semi-tangible fabric that was being spun daily through the actions of her two middle daughters. Her legacy on display, powerful and of impact.

 

Outside the violence persisted; endlessly.

Rampant killings, kidnappings, arson, stories too small to make it to print. No neighborhood was spared, no one was safe.  

My inner turmoil almost as turbulent.

In a desperate attempt to survive my own mind

I took risks that I couldn't pause to consider.

Every day without fail, I would venture across the border to the empty house where I kept "my stash". I would light up, escape, unable to stop, not wanting to stop, believing that this was freedom.

 

On my way back, before the sun set, as I crossed into Juarez, I would repeat over and over, make me invisible, make me invisible, make me invisible.

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