Trace of Echoes (2026)

Through stories, feelings, thoughts, and ideas, the blog’s participants are encouraged to expose a piece of their mind allowing them to focus on a desired subject from any of their experiences. We value and read between the lines of how life’s adventures embody us.

05/05/2019

Wayo Garcia shared with us how a group of young skateboarders worked along a team of city-makers to develop a detailed proposal for a city-funded quality concrete skatepark.

The way my urethane wheels sound bouncing over sidewalk cracks is rhythmically soothing. I’ve been riding skateboards for about fourteen years, I’ve been obsessed with them since I was nine. There’s something so simultaneously peaceful and exhilarating about skateboarding. The ability to go fast and play with the weight of your body on the board, to grind it across objects or send it into the air gives you the feeling of freedom. Skating taught me that the boundary of what we can do is only set by our perceptions.

When a skateboarder chooses a territory to “dance” on, architecture takes on an interactive, physical function. Aesthetic flourishes become extensions for us to propel and glide over. It gives an environment an alternate purpose, a whole new meaning given. Knowing how to do repurpose environments (whether physical or mental) applies to everyday situations-- school becomes tangible when you push through it, jobs become feasible when you grind across them, and problems find solutions when flown into.

New families are made when on the board. Skateparks on their own are a place to challenge yourself while being surrounded by other people doing the with the same goal, which is something uncommon today. That type of connection is strong because there’s nothing required between people but support. People of all different backgrounds, races, family income are there at the park, a painting of different colors and textures.

Experiencing breaking an ankle, slicing the “family jewels bag”, making strangers into friends, finding comfort in uncommon places, and exploring limitlessness of what I can do with this plank of wood has made me fall in love with it...to be able to ride through concrete and asphalt as if it was water.

Recently, our local skate scene has been able to get a project awarded to create a quality concrete skatepark in our growing city. We petitioned for years, getting thousands of signatures and proved our points with valid research. A local city councilman backed our belief and strong proposal, and we got the park. Anyone who wants to see something happen in their city should talk, gather their like minded people, obtain research, and provide a base of knowledge. We can activate our community system and shape the city it defines as needed. Our system is made to work through our input, without our common citizen input the shape of our city becomes skewed from who we actually are or desire to be.

Whoever you are grab a board and see what happens or whatever you do go and break boundaries, find what is the real extent you can take it. That is what life is about, to find what is tangible and explore like there’s no tomorrow.

City Makery

27/07/2018

Lizett Montiel shared with us, "Immersive Improvisation: Performer without a stage."

A performer lives to stage its art, to bring that vision into “reality”; a word I have a problem defining lately... when dreams become reality and reality turned into faded dreams blurs the line. Even if you consider yourself an introvert, the need for creation is latent. Think of it as a body part, or how science says your right hemisphere of the brain activates.

How can you not be used to living in a limbo when placed in the middle of two cultures? Going back and forth from Mexico to the U.S., switching from one language to the other just like the movies my mom would bring home to my 3 siblings and I... the best way to keep a bunch entertained. My parents worked in between our sister cities for a close and loving family, what they have always wanted, they clearly made sure we had the best childhood possible. La casita de los Montiel en la calle Anáhuac de Nuevo Laredo was the place to hang for slumber parties, ice cream, toys and movies, cause my dad would rather have us at home with a bunch of unknown kids than having his kids hang at random houses. This utopian fantasy fed by a Barbie/Nintendo/Disney world (actually Fantasia is my all-time fave) turned me into the surrealist monster of today unconsciously; hoping to wake up and transform into a Sailor Scout or Magical Knight in my Anime days mixed with the Mexican telenovelas while writing the lyrics to my own songs influenced by the MTV era. In retrospective, us 90's kids were brainwashed for the consumerist culture of today ( blurring the line as mentioned) but it also made us believe in some sort of “dream to achieve” motto.

I went through different activities during my childhood and teenage years. Gymnastics, Painting, Choir, Guitar, Soccer, Tae-Kwon Do, Swimming, Yoga, Dancing... the list could go on. I was never good enough for any of them, but perfection was never on the finish line either. I possessed three essential articles with me throughout the years: our family Yamaha Keyboard, a karaoke machine and my diary/pile of diaries, with my innermost thoughts, poems and songs. Not sticking to a hobby for more than 2 years developed into a craving for knowledge and exploring. On the constant search of new music, artists, genres, and styles. Absorbing all the colors, movements and sounds I could intake. Fish out of water in my school uniform when struggling to find an identity manifesting through heavy eyeliner, S*x Pistols t-shirt and wrist cuffs to start off with. The more I would take a risk at expressing myself the more stares I would get and more visits to the principal's office. There was never nothing wrong with that, why would I feel bad when I could feel I was expanding? Perceived as rebellious under the eyes of my parents and the social standards. Finding ways of expression became second nature and sort of developed into channeling energy and emotions when I realized how hard it was to connect in such manner with others, especially if you're supposed to be following TV and magazine trends.

It wasn't long until the internet made it all easier. Chat rooms, forums, and websites all bringing us together. I used a computer for the first time when I was 4. When I was 10, I asked my dad to create an e-mail for me as a birthday present (Lizzet2000@hotmail.com) of course he misspelled my name, like most people do. I had my first computer a couple years later; you see...my dad is an engineer and Sci-Fi fan, so movies and technology were always around just like the latest gadgets to try out; kind of like a science laboratory through my eyes, but a home garage with wires, motherboards, CDs, screens, etc…

It took a long journey of experiences, different places and surfing the web, but it all came together when I decided to quit my “life as a dancer” literally and metaphorically; something I dedicated myself to for years and I allowed to define me until music found its way back. Music was always there, I just happened to find beautiful sound machines along the way. Where these cold-looking objects would transmit warmth and intensity at the same time to guide my intuition. A multilayered, eclectic electronic experience, turning into extensions of my body, resonating until Rizu X was born. So I really thought as a kid that artists only appeared on TV, posters or magazines, success defined by fame. I learned that definition was inaccurate, when a performer doesn't need a stage to express their essence, their craft. The message always finds its way through honesty and acceptance, it's true Shakespeare... “All the world's a stage”.

Resolution = Head out there and perform the uniqueness of your soul! Immerse yourself in the improvised life.

06/07/2018

Benito Bondoc shared with us, "Nuestra Voz."

During my senior year of high school, our school theater troupe was selected to perform in Edinburgh Scotland. This was monumental: no one from Laredo had ever been nominated to perform in the Fringe Festival. We were armed with a beautiful story, Bocon! A play about a Mexican boy crossing the border to find his voice. We were originally selected the previous year, but we were unable to gather enough money. After many plate sales, raffles, bingos, concession stands, and even going door to door for donations we still fell short. About one month before our trip, the parents, students and director gathered in the school cafeteria for another trip meeting. There was tension amongst the group. We still were short about two hundred dollars each and were at wits end trying to find donors or another way to raise money. The stress of putting the trip together leached onto the parents and soon enough there was a full-on debate. If we did not pay the final deposit, we could no longer go, and our credit would not be refunded.

The consensus was that since we had not raised enough money, we should take our shares of all the funds raised and put it towards another trip. Every summer at our school, a couple of teachers would take students on a yearly trip to London and other parts of Europe. Though it was not the same endeavor we had originally worked towards, to our parents traveling around Europe and performing in Scotland looked practically the same. In both instances we would board a plane, fly to the other side of the world and have an unforgettable experience. Since they still had room on their trip, the suggestion was to take our cut, join them, and still go abroad; instead of losing our money through non-refundable deposits and ending up going nowhere at all.

As exciting as sightseeing in Europe sounded, I felt like almost two years of playing catch up went to waste. I took into consideration that many of the parents in the room had probably never been abroad themselves. More so, very few of my peers had never left the country, myself included. I took into consideration that maybe parents just worried about their children and did not want them to get on a plane to travel to the other side of the world. And I considered that maybe parents were tired of raising money and could not contribute anymore of their income to the trip. However, I also considered that no one in my city had ever taken this opportunity before. I knew that we would be the first troupe from Laredo to do something of this caliber and represent our school, our city, our state and country in the largest theater festival in the world. For a group of kids who had all their rehearsals in a school cafeteria, this was a once in a lifetime opportunity.

Yes, all the money we had raised was at stake. But it meant so much more than just that. It meant that our efforts were worth it. For everyone that donated it meant that they believed in the art and sharing our story. As far as the local theater community, it meant that theater education was no longer just about doing plays. It was about students and teachers doing more because theater exposure was just as important as theater education. In that moment, I could not hold back. There was so much more to lose. I proposed that since we were equally separating the funds and since I did not want to settle for a second option, I would take my share and continue raising money to perform at the Fringe. I don’t remember who barked first, but I remember upsetting a lot of parents, including my own. How could a child tell adults that they might not have the best idea? In a culture where you do not dare speak up to your elders, how do you say “no”? How do you justify it within yourself to say, “we have other options”? Even if it means putting others in an uncomfortable position.

The idea was immediately shot down and I got glares from my parents to not add more tension to the room. I was nervous, upset, and I’m sure it read loud and clear. I upset a lot of parents for asking who else would be interested in the same option. A couple of my peers raised their hands and received the same glare from their parents. At this moment I knew that the worst thing I could do was stop speaking up. We were already going to be scolded for speaking at the grownups table, so I figured we might as well be scolded for trying.

I learned a couple of very important things from that moment in our high school cafeteria.

First, change will only happen if someone speaks up. There is no other way for people to know that they are being heard. Sometimes, you may have to be the first voice to breakthrough. And though it may feel like you are alone at the forefront, know that there are many people who are working day in and day out to be exactly where you are. I consider myself privileged in that I am alive and able to do the things I like. It is for that reason that I encourage those with the same privilege to do the same. Speak up. If not for you, then for others.

Second, surround yourself with likeminded individuals. Prove it to yourself that you are not alone and find those who are also looking to be heard. Its difficult to imagine that someone out there is waiting with the same concerns as you, with the same passion, or hesitancy, praying that someone will spark change and light a new path. Find your people and ride that wave. As long as you are walking with your best foot forward, then every step is a step closer to change.
Third, you cannot be afraid to want things. We owe it to ourselves to hope and work for more. I believe that it is our destiny to take all that we have and add for the next generation. I have also learned that you are never late in making your own discoveries. If you realize that there was an easier way to do things, or that someone already paved the path you planned out, “Everyone is entitled to their own discoveries”. My high school piano teacher told me this one day and I never forgot it. No one is any less of a human for trying to figure something out. In fact, we are human because of our abilities to learn and grow. But more than anything, if you desire something, chase it. Chances are, you’re not the only one.

Remember that people do not change easily. Change happens with time, with energy, with persistence, with animo. I implore you to never settle. People have worked far too hard for the resources that are available, find them, learn, and teach others. One of the best pieces of advice I ever got was from my friend Marc during a critique of one of my shows. He said, “if you want your audience to feel something, you have to feel it.” That goes beyond the theater. He made it clear that you can never expect for people to believe in something if you’re not willing to believe yourself. Practice what you preach and soon you will not only be surrounded by people who hear you, but rather people who believe you.

Because of that one experience, I have never taken the opportunities life has presented me for granted. I often wonder what would have happened if we would have settled for another trip. I never would have known how many people stood next to me thinking the exact same thing. The flight to Scotland would have not been my first plane ride ever. I never would have been inspired to do theater in unconventional places. After being surrounded by theater in buses, on the streets, in bars, elevators, taxis, I refuse to believe that theater is just for the stage. Instead, I accept that theater is everywhere. It’s the stories we choose to tell others. It’s the moments that we share in laughter and in silence. It’s what we believe and the stories that deserve to be heard.

That was my discovery. Some may be privileged to discover the power of speaking up like me, but I write this for the ones that are not so fortunate. That summer in Edinburgh we performed a play called Bocon! The play is about Miguel, a boy from Mexico who escapes “los soldados” in pursuit of a better life in Los Angeles “the city of angels”. The “big mouth” boy loses his voice when his parents are taken away and soon his journey becomes a literal and metaphorical journey of finding his voice. I write this for all the Miguel’s out there. Your voice is out there, you just need to find it. The road will be difficult, lonely, tiresome, stressful, defeating but, in the pursuit of what lies closest to your heart, siempre encontramos nuestra voz.

03/06/2018

Marilyn Bautista shared with us, "Diary of A Single Mother."

-Before the ‘Hood-

Before I was a parent, I thought a ten-minute trip to the store was such a drag but now it would be considered an Olympic record time after fiddling with snack-packing, car-seat fidgeting and refereeing two young boys of who gets to have what toy. And eating out at restaurants is no longer about unwinding after a long day at work but more like a multitasking quest as I pick up cheerios from the floor, keep crayons from rolling off the table and drinks from spilling.

Parenthood did not come with a manual. And once that radical realization that I AM the manual set in and the paranoia wore off, I discovered a strength and will to wake up every single day. As the parent, we are needed physically and emotionally so we have to be on our A-game all the time. Our time, becomes their time. Our schedules revolve around the kids schedules and routines. Everything that was once about me, is now about my kids. Everything.

Ever heard of the phrase, “parenthood, the scariest hood you’ll ever walk through”? Well, it’s true. Imagine having to raise these little human beings into civilized humans. Let’s face it. No one is ever ready to be a parent, much less a single parent. There is no partner or ‘B-team’ to help you when you are about to have a mental or emotional breakdown (which, by the way, DO happen). As a single parent you learn to self-sooth. You learn to cope and hold your pain and frustrations internally and let it all out in the shower once the kids are sleeping so they won’t hear you sob. You learn to pull through weak moments on your own while holding one child’s hand and carrying the other child on your hip.

As a parent, we share our children’s grief and we heal their pains. We stay up through the dark watches of the night when the kids are sick, just to get up the next day for a full- time’s work day followed by home chores, never ending parent duties and more daily details after work. Being a single parent definitely challenged the way I saw myself. Many times I laid in the darkness of my room, thinking if I’m doing it right. Doubting my ability to raise children. Fearing having to face the future alone as the leader of my pack with no backup. And, yes, feeling a tad bit crazy at times. Crazy. That word that seems to define us. But crazy is exactly what pushes us through. Crazy is a form of passion. Ridiculous passion for our kids as we push against doubt, insecurities, pessimism, and stigma.

Before I was a parent I thought I knew exactly how love looked like. I thought I knew the power of my strength and the value of my sleep and the potential of my happiness and the length of my patience. Before I was a parent, I seriously never knew how beautiful chaos would be.

For me, the duties of a single parent aren’t what are challenging because I have learned to organize schedules and lead routines. My biggest trial has been to hold on to how I viewed myself as I go through the trenches of self-judgment, heart aches and self-doubt in today’s societal standards for woman.

-Blank Space-

Dating and love life don't come easy as a single parent. After a full day’s work followed by an evening of chasing little hooligans, the only thing on my mind is a warm shower and fluffy pillow, and maybe a glass of wine. But I do find myself wanting to talk to someone at the end of the day. Someone to vent to and who will console me as I tread through my rollercoaster days. And yes, I constantly hear, “but you have friends and family that love to hear from you”. Yes, I am blessed to have an amazing support system of family and friends. But it’s still not the same as having that one person that wants to take care of your spirit and heart. That person that is your teammate and not just a fan. That person that experiences life WITH you, not BY you.

A huge factor into this whole dating scheme is the time devoted to dating. As a single parent, I definitely do not have the time to date. I personally get two days and 16 hours a month (yes, I count it to the hour) of mommy off-duties, usually when my kids go simultaneously with their dads. Within those days I try to cram every single thing I won’t do when I’m in mommy duty which mostly consists of not-so-kid-friendly errands, such as taking our dog to the vet, grocery shopping, self-care, catching up with friends, and maybe, just maybe a date. So, if I actually give someone the time of day, it’s because I see some sort of potential.

Usually it doesn’t get past the first couple of dates before I cut them off though. I’ve been told that I am too picky. I HAVE to be. Because I am not only looking for a lifetime partner, but I am also looking for someone that will be a lifetime role model to my kids. And that is the hardest part for me, allowing someone to come into my life because, well, they’ll be coming into my kid’s life too. And having to wean a person out of my kid’s life they’ve grown attached to is no easy feat for any parent.

In addition to shielding my kids from grief, there’s always that fear of a false illusion. The fear of perhaps settling down with the wrong person. Or the fear of perhaps not being good enough. But I stay hopeful as I leave a blank space in my life for the name of that special someone who will accept me as a mother and admire me as a woman. But most importantly, for that someone who will accept my kids unconditionally.

-Yesterday’s Heart Aches-

I think the worst part of dating as a single parent is believing we found our happy ever after only to realize we were in the wrong story. Having to juggle that nasty feeling we get in our gut of being cheated and robbed of a future we were certain was ours all while still having to fully function as a parent. Cleaning up juice spills, empathizing with our kids school day, helping with homework, bedtime stories or just simply being present with our kids while our heart is breaking and aching takes a special kind of skill.

As a single parent we go through the grief cycle just like anyone else does but in a more fragile scale since kids are involved and when a single parent is going through any type of emotional stress, most of the time the kids will get some of those ramifications. First, there is the feeling of anger towards ourselves for being irresponsible by letting someone close enough to take power from you and valuable time from our kids. Anger usually comes hand-in-hand with guilt and disappointment of not being present with our kids because we are so caught up with the constant replay of how things played out. Where did I miss the red flag? How long was this going on? Was I really that unlovable?

After constant self-deliberation of where we went wrong, sadness creeps in. We start to doubt our standards and reevaluate our self-esteem. We start to tiptoe around anything that might remind the kids of that person; a movie, a game, a toy. And then, one day, we come to terms with the brutal honesty, that that person just wasn’t that much into us because, well, they’d still be here.

As single parents, we need people that are trustworthy, consistent and reliable. We need people who can handle the bad times and offer loyalty especially when faced with uncertainty. We need people that offer safe havens and not battlefields. We need people that will be willing to fight at war for our love and not be some casualty with a weak heart and blurred morals. As single parents, life is moving fast in the midst of raising tiny humans so we really don’t have the time to train anyone to be the person we need. We don’t have time for temporary or lost or “we’ll see where this goes” type of people. You either stand up and be the man I need or sit down to see the man behind you.

And when all that sets in, you accept your scars and wounds with grace and self-compassion. You begin to see that toxic person as a blessing and thank them. You thank them for the happy experiences. You thank them for illuminating you with your perseverance to live a happy life. But most importantly you thank them for showing you that you can still love unconditionally.

-Queen of my own Heart, Mind and Soul-

As a mother, no one credits your strength because motherhood is culturally stereotyped to believe that it’s supposed to be easy since women are programmed genetically to be the caregivers. But being a woman only adds to the vulnerability of the already fragile and tested soul.

In the midst of some soul searching and deep meditation I discovered that I needed to like myself first which meant I needed to take care of myself. Some call it selfish, I call it self-care. It is through self-acceptance and self-awareness that I have been able to take full responsibility for my kids. And within that responsibility I found my confidence to lead, protect and nurture. You can’t fill your kids cup when your cup is empty. Meaning if you are not emotionally, mentally, physically or spiritually fulfilled, you can’t expect to give that to someone else.

Growth started when I took responsibility for the fulfillment of my own life. My happiness. My joys. My standards. I took on the mentality of, plant your own garden instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers. So I did just that. I made a bucket list, a list of things to do before dying or ‘kicking the bucket’. I wrote down everything I want out of life - goals, dreams, ideas. I wrote down silly, small accomplishments such as learning to skip pebbles, fly in a hot air balloon and finish a Spartan Race to big, long term goals such as getting my master’s degree, having a picnic in New York’s Central Park, seeing the cherry blossoms in Japan and witnessing the Northern Glacier lights.

Self-care is about enjoying life, not escaping it. And as I check off experiences and collect them I become happier. I have more drive to care for my loved ones, I’m calmer, my body feels better, my mind is clearer, my spirit is fulfilled. People want to be around me because I give off good positive energy. The more I do for myself, the more I can do for others.

I won’t let society stereotype me into believing I’m a bad mom because I take care of myself. I will continue to work out in my backyard as my boys play without the guilt of being selfish. I will continue to dress up and feel good about how I look without feeling ashamed. And I will continue to lip sync to Cardi B without feeling judged (Okuuuuuur).

My boys deserve happy and healthy parents. And I will continue to guide them to create lives that feel good, not ones that look good.

05/05/2018

Roli Santos shared with us, “The Father, the Son, and the Muddy Clothes.”

The lights in the sky would show up every once in a while without notice throughout my childhood. I used to sit outside and look at them, dance back and forth when they would show up. Cold, cloudy nights were the perfect conditions to spot them. The sky would have a purple hue that made the reflection of those blue spotlights really stand out. It almost made my neighborhood look like Gotham City or like those scenes from WWII documentaries where Allied forces searched for German planes in the sky. I was really young, and I could only speculate the purpose of those lights. Where were they coming from? What were they trying to say? One day, my aunt came from work to our house in Nuevo Laredo. She told me that the lights were coming from across. The answer was vague enough to satisfy my curiosity without destroying my sense of wonder. I stopped asking questions about the lights after that. Perhaps deep down inside I knew I would ruin the magic if I knew too much.

I used to believe a lot of wild things when I was a kid. My brother once told me that Godzilla slept inside an abandoned two-story brick chimney that was part of an old building near International Bridge 1. I believed him. I thought stop lights were actually robots with highly advanced artificial intelligence and that the Wayne’s World sketch in Saturday Night Live was a real show. Perhaps the most far-fetched one was the one about my father. I used to think that my dad would build a two-story house for the family like the one in Full House. He had blueprints of a house tucked away safely on top of the closet in the master bedroom inside a blue folder, wrapped around protective plastic. I would sometimes take the floor plans out when no one was around and call dibs on what would be my room. Though quite extensively planned out, the house would never be built. My dad would eventually leave the family a couple of years after that. It wasn’t a sudden thing like in the movies though. There was no, “I’m going to the store to buy cigarettes”. It was a gradual event of sporadic absences throughout the years until he simply was no longer around. To this day, I really don’t know if those blueprints were for a real house or for something else.

When I was in fourth grade, I saw a group of girls near the fence of the school where my mom used to wait for me during recess. In Nuevo Laredo, moms used to line up outside the fence of the school to bring their kids lunch. The poor, forgotten kids would eat chips with salsa from the vendors at school, and the rest would eat freshly made tacos. If your mom was on the other side of the fence, you were one of the lucky ones. I thought I’d impress the girls by jumping on a branch and swinging to where my mom was. That showcase of manly ninja skills was sure to get the attention of the ladies. I ran towards the tree near them and proceeded to jump and grab onto the branch. That’s when I knew something was wrong. I didn’t realize it had rained just a few minutes before our recess, and the branches were quite wet and slippery. My hands lost grip of the branch. As I fell onto a deep puddle of mudd conveniently and comically located underneath the tree, I could hear the line of moms scream in unison. My mom screamed in panic, “Mijo!!! Estas bien?! Mijo!” I was physically fine, but my reputation, much like my clothes, had been painfully stained. When I heard the girls laughing, I knew I had made a big mistake. At least it couldn’t get worse, I thought. I was wrong.

My mom, being the resourceful woman she always has been, asked one of the other moms who owned a truck for a ride home to change my muddy clothes. To avoid damages to the inside of the truck, they thoughtfully placed me in the bed of the truck and told me to sit on an old paint bucket and grab on tightly to the side so I wouldn’t fall out of the moving vehicle. The truck took off very slowly. We were about to turn the corner at the lightning speed of 5 mph when I saw my entire class through the school fence running along with the truck, waving goodbye to me. I couldn’t hide. I couldn’t run away. There was nothing for me to do but to wave back. For a moment, it looked like the circus was in town, and I was the main attraction. Come one, come all and witness the daring act of public awkwardness of Mudd Kid and his freakishly long limbs!

At the time, my father was in the middle of a tour with his band, so I never got to tell him what had happened. I think he might have helped by cracking out a joke about it. He was good at that. I don’t think I saw him for months during that period. His absence would continue to increase in frequency and duration in the upcoming years.

By all accounts, my father was a very handsome and charismatic man. A stupid man, but handsome and charismatic nonetheless. I promised myself never to turn out like him and vowed to withhold from playing music all together. As luck would have it though, I would inherit his stubborn passion for music and a bit of his charisma. The “good look” genes were exhausted in the making of my brother and sister, but no one in the family has a collection of guitar pedals quite like me….so yeah.

The last time I had a conversation with my father, he and my mom had been fighting all day. My mom had asked him to get something for dinner and to take me with him. I guess she didn’t trust him anymore. The car ride was quiet. The seat reeked of beer, and he was clearly a bit out of it. After a few blocks of uncomfortable silence he finally asked, “So...how’s school?” I could’ve told him about the mudd incident that had happened years before to break the tension (I always thought it was a funny story), but I decided not to. I guess I thought he knew it since it had happened long ago. He didn’t. It was then that I realized that this man had absolutely no idea who I was anymore, and I didn’t know much of him either. It was a harsh realization. There was a clear distancing years in the making. “Good.” I answered. We fell silent for the rest of the ride home.

I didn’t get to see much him after that until my sister’s high school graduation, when he unexpectedly showed up, a tiny bit feral and tired like a cat that goes missing and returns home after a few adventures. I did not speak to him then either, not out of spite, but because there was nothing to talk about. The connection simply had disappeared. No soap opera drama here. The relationship had slowly withered away. We were just two strangers sharing a moment in time. Family dysfunction is not as dramatic as television makes it out to be. I’ve learned that over the years. When you grow older, life sometimes can be a bit dry and anticlimactic. I knew too much now.

When I was about 12, my family finally made the move to Laredo. I can’t remember if I was in my aunt’s car or if i was walking, but I finally found out where those spotlights in the sky were coming from. It had been raining, so the smell of fried fat and stored buns permeated the air a little stronger than usual. I looked at the roof of the McDonald's downtown where two big spotlights were smoothly moving back and forth. The lights became larger the farther they went up until they were massive in the clouds. I couldn’t react for a while. I just stared at them. “Maybe the McRib is back,” I thought.

Address

78040–78046, 78049

Website

http://traceofechoes.com/

Alerts

Be the first to know and let us send you an email when Trace of Echoes posts news and promotions. Your email address will not be used for any other purpose, and you can unsubscribe at any time.

Contact The Practice

Send a message to Trace of Echoes:

Trace of Echoes