“They said Mary used to be on this street.”
I turn my head quickly, unsure of what I heard.
“In a tree,” says Melba. One of the founders of Team Brownsville stops the car at an intersection. She continues her story. “The locals in Brownsville say there was a tree on this street that looked like the Virgin on the bark. Everyone used to come here to see her. There was such a commotion…”
Read MoreWhen I was five years old, my mother told me a story about the peaches in Sevilla de Oro. My father had just thrown my only pair of sneakers out of the living room window. When I say throw, what I mean is launched them like a cannonball. I had been complaining every day that they didn’t feel right. My father asked if they were tight, and in the middle of my hysterics I answered that they weren’t. This enraged him and his yelling made me shake. He told me to take off my sneakers. He opened the window and threw them as far as he could. They landed in a construction zone.
Read MoreAll the juices at the bodega around the corner from my apartment have a number and a name, like “immunity” and “power.” The menu mounted on the wall looks like a blackboard scrawled with daily specials, but the handwriting is a font and the specials never change. I scan it for something with beets and lemon. The only option with both is number ten—depression.
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