Thirteen Years Old, 1934
Proserpina en la playa de Progreso
N 21° 17’ 15.396” W 89° 39' 58.391”
Most boats this afternoon have cast off into the Gulf taking
the dark-skinned men who bodies always smell like the sea.
Barefoot on the beach, with only the wind whistling through
their hair, the girls tiptoe across the seaweed-covered shore
unbothered. They approach the berthed boat on the beach,
la surgida, to ask the old man who fixes its hull to please take
their photo. Just turned thirteen, Proserpina stands between
two girlfriends in a sleeveless floral dress — hand-made by her
mother — head bowed, squinting, a thin smile etched into her
lips, a mother-of-pearl beret clip to keep the hair from her face.
Borrowed from her stepfather, the camera catches her dress
still tucked and tied between her knees from when she alone
waded hip-deep into the water, the other girls only watching
from a distance, knowing Proserpina’s mother had asked them
to stay away from the beach, to not step foot into the water,
unescorted. But in the water, eyes closed and alone, before
the boats would return with men whose skin would be turned
white with salt, she imagines — the sand floating over her feet —
of her life outside the peninsula, a place where she would not
be just two years away from being a woman, but remain a girl
tightly holding the hands of her girlfriends, unafraid of men.
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