It was one of those long rides, at night, on an old bus, in central Mexico, that he entertained the question.
The swaying and rocking of the frame on poor pavement, the endless drone of the 12” black and white TV at the very front, so only the driver can watch, with run-on Spanish, that the local Indian pickups don’t recognize (from the cities they must assume), the weak headlights that remain a swerve behind, causing the only two gringos to not take our eyes off the dark and then light road, to anticipate the next curves cliff, short a guardrail, and strain our necks to be first to see the view on the short way down the mountain, even though all would reach a similar fate, all were able to sleep and relax their minds and bodies, moving on to the next life if so numbered with a peaceful step, unlike the two white brothers, who thought that they were in control of the bus with their minds, and their genes, and their falsely conceived sense of worth to this life, which surfaced later on reflection, and now is removed consciously upon returning, being replac
ed with an understanding that all of us take our souls and go, alone, and with none of the things we have accumulated and clung to as indications of our value.
ed with an understanding that all of us take our souls and go, alone, and with none of the things we have accumulated and clung to as indications of our value.
Oh yeah, the question……he leaned over to the gentlemen sitting next to him (his brother and he intentionally never sit together, or rarely even near each other) and asked, ¿Qué es más importante para usted en esta vida? He lifted his hat up above his eyes for a moment, looking inquisically at the bright eyed gringo and said, "Usted no habla muy buen español", and then pulled his hat down low and fell to sleep. So he held on to the seat rail and looked ahead to the next curve in the road.
