The things migrants carried and dropped as they crossed the border
Molly Hennessy-Fiske
An empty wallet.
A line of Scripture.
These and other possessions litter the dirt path leading uphill from the Rio Grande. Bright spots quickly coated with dust, they are what was carried and what was dropped by mothers, fathers and children, like the boy whose size 6 Batman underwear lay in a clearing beyond a thicket.
Birth certificates. Scribbled phone numbers. Prized belongings hauled for weeks over hundreds of miles. These, too, are scattered along the trail by migrants, their footsteps quiet in the night after they’ve crossed the river. But what shine most are the plastic wristbands a rainbow of yellow, gray, red and blue spreading through the brush some cinched to fit the smallest arms.