The Secret Language of Prairie Dogs by James Villanueva

Author:James Villanueva
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Wild Lark Strategies

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The air is thick and unusually muggy for west Texas. The chirping of the cicadas has returned. Holding hands, we make our way past the compound, past the school, past the Burger Lot, and across the street of the football field to the relic. Dulcero, every now and again, smiles at me with his brilliantly white smile. There is a new ease and comfort in his eyes. We’re a long way from making sure everything is okay but now there’s hope.

We sit in front of the relic and notice the distant flashing lightning of a far-off storm miles and miles away. We sit beneath the relic, guarded by her tall towers. I am sitting behind Dulcero, hugging him into my chest, holding him in my arms - never wanting to let him go.

“I’ve never felt this way about anybody,” his voice rips my heart at its seams. I privately set out a thank you prayer just between me and the universe for bringing him to me.

“Me neither,” I breathe out thinking about the many more things I will learn about him. Thinking about the good things I will learn about him. Thinking about the magic he has within now that he has been released from his affliction.

It lasts for only a brief moment though as he stands and says, “This is why I wanted to bring you,” he holds out his arm helping me up.

I follow him behind the relic. At the bottom of the south end tower is a pile of loose bricks. He takes each brick, piece by piece, and gently places them to the side respecting the structure. He pulls out a duffle bag. He kneels down behind the tower and pulls me in, so we’re not seen from the road. Unzipping the bag, he pulls out some worn clothes and beneath is stacks and stacks of money. The cartel money was shipped to his dad from the states. The cartel money dripped with the invisible blood of his murdered parents. He pulls out a picture of a young girl - Allianna.

“This is her?” I ask. Her young eyes are bright from the moon as my eyes adjust to the dark.

“Yes,” he’s holding the picture to his chest.

“It isn’t safe here,” I say. I see the concern in his eyes. The reality of what still is to come sweeping across his face. I grab the bag, but his grip won’t let go. I understand why though. I am still a Latino man born with the curse of other brown men. It is still too soon for him not to be hurt by me. We share that same bond, that same curse. I let him keep it.

“Do you promise?” His voice is childlike now and I remember he is younger than me at only fifteen and has only been viewed as a man for but a few brief years if not months. He steadily releases the bag, and we fill it back with his few belongings from a life once had south of the border.

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