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I used to live a mile from the border near the towns of Reynosa, Rio Bravo, and Matamoros, where we'd ignore the dried up creek of the Rio Grande and cross freely to see one another, share meals, or watch Tejanos come down for cheap meds.
Old Miguel Bolivar, whose legs have long since given out, sits in his wheel chair, waiting for the procession, watching as it turns the corner and rushes toward him. The burriquitas shake their rears seductively and surge around him, ready to swallow him up in the festivities.
William Reese Hamilton