We forget that we are all dead men conversing wtih dead men. br —Jorge Luis Borges br br For the first time, on the road north of Tampico, br I felt the life sliding out of me, br a drum in the desert, harder and harder to hear. br I was seven, I lay in the car br watching palm trees swirl a sickening pattern past the glass. br My stomach was a melon split wide inside my skin. br br 'How do you know if you are going to die?' br I begged my mother. br We had been traveling for days. br With strange confidence she answered, br 'When you can no longer make a fist.' br br Years later I smile to think of that journey, br the borders we must cross separately, br stamped with our unanswerable woes. br I who did not die, who am still living, br still lying in the backseat behind all my questions, br clenching and opening one small hand.