Don Ysidro

By Bruce Holland Rogers

On that last morning, anyone who came to visit me could see that I was dying. I knew it myself. As if I had cotton in my ears, I heard the voice of don Leandro saying to my wife, “Dona Susana, I think it is time to fetch the priest,” and I thought, yes, it’s time.

We don’t have our own priest, or even our own church, so someone has to drive in a pickup truck to get the priest from El Puentecito. But don’t be fooled by what you may hear in Malpasa or in Palpan de Baranda. Here we remain Catholic. Yes, we make pots in the old way. That’s why tourists come here. And it’s true, as is sometimes whispered, that we have restored certain other practices from the past. But not as they were done back then. Those were bloody and terrible times, the times of the Mejica. They say that the sacrificial blood covered the sun pyramids from top to bottom. Thank the Virgin, we don’t do anything like that.

Some Girlfriends Can

By Stephanie Burgis

“Too bad it’s raining. Hey, Lauren, make the rain stop, okay?” He reaches across the table and tousles my hair affectionately.

I bare my teeth in the semblance of a grin. “Ha ha. Sorry, I can’t.”

“I know.” He shakes his head, laughs ruefully. “It’s just . . . Maya could.”