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the sun before the burn ][ narrative
It was summer; late June, and he was twelve years old, soon to be thirteen. He would have rather been at home with his friends, but he still didn’t dislike being in Mexico with his mother.
“We’re going to drive down and see the shore where it’s still blue, Alexander,” she’d told him, wearing her big sun-hat and smiling down at him, hands through his hair like he was still a little boy. At twelve, he already felt like he should be doing something more than playing tag and finishing math homework. Later, he would realize that his mother taking him on these trips was her way of spending time with him as she watched him grow up too fast in ways she couldn’t understand.
Alexander still liked playing, though he felt different. He wanted to climb trees and investigate alleys and duck into churches to see the old relics and wonder if God was watching. His friends wanted to play video games or tease girls. He went along with it, because he liked being around them.
He liked being alone, too, but sometimes the sounds behind his eyes got very loud, then, and it frightened him.
Here in Rosarito, he doesn’t think about any of that. His mother is somewhere in the hotel patio, already worried over where he’s gone. Absently, he wonders if she’ll think he’s been kidnapped. They aren’t in Tijuana, but farther south, in a pretty tourist town. There are still men with cases of cheap jewelry wandering up and down the beach and homeless children selling candy on the streets; he thinks it looks like back home in Los Angeles.
“We can buy some fireworks later”, his mother had told him, “And have our own private 4th of July early.”
There are horses on the beach that you can pay to ride up and down for a half hour. They’re skinny and sway-backed and have sad-looking eyes. The man watching them tells Alexander it’s four dollars, eying him for being out all alone, but takes his money anyway. Apparently whether or not an American boy falls and snaps his neck is of no concern.
He’s never ridden a horse before, but he knows how. He doesn’t come back within a half hour, because he rides all the way down the beach, until the hotel is a tiny speck in the distance. There are other children down here, who speak no English and stare at him. He lets the horse wander away and speaks to them in a language only young people understand, and they play soccer on the sand. The sun begins to set and he fetches the horse, walking back alongside her and holding her reins in his hand.
Alexander’s mother is furious and crying when he finally gets back, but all he can think about is the feeling of running and laughing barefoot under the sun.
“We’re going to drive down and see the shore where it’s still blue, Alexander,” she’d told him, wearing her big sun-hat and smiling down at him, hands through his hair like he was still a little boy. At twelve, he already felt like he should be doing something more than playing tag and finishing math homework. Later, he would realize that his mother taking him on these trips was her way of spending time with him as she watched him grow up too fast in ways she couldn’t understand.
Alexander still liked playing, though he felt different. He wanted to climb trees and investigate alleys and duck into churches to see the old relics and wonder if God was watching. His friends wanted to play video games or tease girls. He went along with it, because he liked being around them.
He liked being alone, too, but sometimes the sounds behind his eyes got very loud, then, and it frightened him.
Here in Rosarito, he doesn’t think about any of that. His mother is somewhere in the hotel patio, already worried over where he’s gone. Absently, he wonders if she’ll think he’s been kidnapped. They aren’t in Tijuana, but farther south, in a pretty tourist town. There are still men with cases of cheap jewelry wandering up and down the beach and homeless children selling candy on the streets; he thinks it looks like back home in Los Angeles.
“We can buy some fireworks later”, his mother had told him, “And have our own private 4th of July early.”
There are horses on the beach that you can pay to ride up and down for a half hour. They’re skinny and sway-backed and have sad-looking eyes. The man watching them tells Alexander it’s four dollars, eying him for being out all alone, but takes his money anyway. Apparently whether or not an American boy falls and snaps his neck is of no concern.
He’s never ridden a horse before, but he knows how. He doesn’t come back within a half hour, because he rides all the way down the beach, until the hotel is a tiny speck in the distance. There are other children down here, who speak no English and stare at him. He lets the horse wander away and speaks to them in a language only young people understand, and they play soccer on the sand. The sun begins to set and he fetches the horse, walking back alongside her and holding her reins in his hand.
Alexander’s mother is furious and crying when he finally gets back, but all he can think about is the feeling of running and laughing barefoot under the sun.