The Years After
Meredith Benson
Mama said there used to be a God. Now we pray to the mines and the little money they earn us. Mama said there used to be green—real green, like in the leaves and grass. Now the only green we see is the paint chipping off dusty machines. Mama said there used to be trees that touched the clouds, that those trees could heal any hurt you felt. Mama said there used to be fairies called bees and butterflies, but that they went away when their homes were destroyed. Now, all we have are flies. Mama said Papa used to be clean and didn’t cough red all the time, but I don’t know if that true ‘cause Papa’s always had rocks in his lungs and Mama’s always been sad. Mama said Ecuador used to be beautiful. I don’t know if I believe that, either.
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Mama says the dust shouldn’t be here. It gets in our eyes and in between our teeth. We make puffs of dust every time we breathe. I pretend I’m smoking ‘cause it hurts my lungs, too. Mama says there used to be mountains; she says I can’t even imagine how big they were. But I’ve seen the rock and dust piles by the mine and those can get pretty big . Mama gets mad when I drink from the stream. She says there shouldn’t be swirling rainbows on top and shiny cans floating through it. But it’s almost gone, anyway.
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They brought us into the mines today to show us how wonderful they were. The miners were dust ghosts with blinking eyeballs while big machines danced around them. It looked like a giant anthill and the miners were the ants doing the work for the queen. No one smiled at us. They all had tired eyes that looked right through us. I got scared and had to leave, and everyone laughed at me. I didn’t see Papa there—maybe they had given him the day off. * * * Mama told me Papa got to leave work. I don’t know why he
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