A TOUCH

BY GEN VAHL

We rumble along dirt roads, dodging potholes in the suv that has enough space for everyone.

Mexican culture is built to welcome embracing outsiders like me as their own.

Back to abuela’s we drove. Crawling under the stars like a beetle on a leaf, we move, unnoticed.

Outside abuela’s, we fall silent, stunned by the silence of the night. Gawking at the same sky as those far beyond me, abuela opens the door and wishes us inside.

We debrief over the croaks of night. To bed we must go, a long day to retrace, a long day we anticipate. reaching summer temperatures by Wisconsin standards. Nighttime proves its deception, sending shivers down your back; a thief of daytime dreams.

Layers assembled, ready for bed. Commencing my nightly routine, I head to the bathroom for freshening.

I stare at myself in the mirror, reflecting on my gratitude. What an opportunity I had to travel with my best friend in her home country, coddled by her family’s unquestioning acceptance. After immigrating to the US, they were attentive to include me knowing the feeling of being left out.

My depth of privilege turned on with the faucet as a flood of silence filled the bathroom. Dry, the drain stared back at me, mocking my expectation. At times, it comes unconditionally, like parents’ unwavering obsession with their kin.

But in others, it’s like counting down the days until a loved one leaves, an exact moment when it is gone, empty and silent.

We expect luxury as our standard here in the US. Flushing drinkable water, sipping the tap, watering our grass.

Although different in México, it is really no inconvenience. Expanding perspective actually, realizing we can do without until morning.

It’s moments like these when a faucet lacks its fruit and makeup to be removed, that we are snapped back into reality, our expectations shifted and we then can understand our touch of privilege.