The border.

February 23, Roma.

The route didn't specify the location, perhaps because it's a vacant lot next to a gas station off the highway crossing town.
Some time after Mission the freeway became a banal highway winding through dusty territory, "historic" Rio Grande City, crossways.
If we were parked the other way around, we'd look out of the window onto this, the Mexican border, the Rio Grande a few hundred yards away, the border patrol nearby. The frontera manifest only through an absence, the light bouncing off the lack of earth, a faint line in the morning landscape.
I'd always wanted to see the river, the border of all borders, fault line of our times, so filled with fantasies, as if physically seeing it would bring me closer to its intricacies, its vast echoes.
If the Kenyans were here they'd have gone fishing on it by now.