not everyone gets to go home

not everyone gets to go home

by Héctor Gutiérrez

Tepoztlán, México

There's a mountain back home that people swear is the closest place we have to heaven. I didn't believe any of it until God got onto my bus.

She wore worn out jeans with holes on her knees and an oversized jacket despite the sweltering heat. Her guitar had one missing string and was in need of new paint. Her dark skin glistened under the sun as She stood out among the rest of the passengers; not for being God, but for being different.

I closed my eyes and brought my hands together and prayed for all the things I wanted. After I opened them, God was staring at me. She knew I only did this when I thought She could hear me.

Why was God going back to the sky?

God didn't sing a song like She probably had in every other bus, but She still captured my attention. I don't think anyone noticed her the way I did. Why would they? We are always too busy anyways.

A part of me wanted to believe She was just returning from helping people in need, but the extenuating circumstances taking place in the world at the moment told me She had lost her faith in us.

When the bus came to a halt, She stood up and got out. She didn't spare me a glance or a word. Why would She? I wasn't dying; I wasn't sick; I wasn't anyone. But out of all the buses in this route–in this world– She took mine. And that had to mean something.