The sound of an airplane overhead made a steady drone. The small, yellow patch of grass I was sitting on poked my hands. María was making people by turning a peace sign upside down and walking her fingers around on the dusty ground, talking softly to herself. Larrana sat crosslegged counting our food. It was incredibly peaceful, just us three in the middle of nowhere relaxing. I watched a car approach in the distance, heat waves rippling across the hood. I longed for a smooth, air conditioned ride myself, but when I was sitting in my office on the thirteenth floor of a skyscraper in New York, I would look back on this moment and be proud of our hard work.
YOU ARE READING
Home of the Brave
Short StoryImmigrants are often viewed as waves of unwanted citizens. You don't see their faces or hear their stories. Read from the journal entries of Clara, a sixteen-year-old crossing Mexico at an attempt to cross the U.S. border with her friend Larrana and...
