waiting for a ghost

I’ve only one photo of us. I  know more exist(ed?) but I’ve never seen them and probably won’t.  I’m referring to photos of me and Bombo.  We dated when I was quite a bit younger, an adolescent and he went to prison while I was still a teenager for charges of “poisoning the masses”.  I always liked how that sounded more grandiose than the reality, that he was a middle-management coke dealer.   He was a good boyfriend and I loved him very much and maintained a close friendship with him during his ten years in prison speaking with him frequently and making the trip to visit him at least once a year but usually more often than that.

Tuxpan Prison

Picture taken in the Tuxpan prison.    I believe  on this day we celebrated Laura’s birthday with a cake. (Bombo is in the black sleeveless shirt, I’m in the pink)

Some of my blog entries have been lost but here was one I wrote on “How to visit a Mexican Prison“, or other posts like this one and this one, just about visiting him.  Anyway, I continued to visit him until he was released.  Shortly before he was released he phoned me, and asked me if I would marry him. He explained that the guys he had worked for before wanted him back in the business but that he didn’t want back in.  If we married he could come to the United States and be safe.  At first I agreed but the more I thought about it, the more I wanted out.  I returned his call and told him I couldn’t do it.  Rather than the anger I expected, he consoled me, and told me not to worry that all would be okay, that the “guys” had said he didn’t have to work anymore.

I knew he was lying to me. He didn’t want me to worry. They don’t let you just walk away.  I wanted to believe him and so I did.  After his release, I returned to Mexico to see him again. He arrived at my house  in a brand new car. I asked how he had acquired the car, he explained he had purchased it because he had a good job as a cashier.  WTF? No one, not even in the US can afford a brand new car with a job as a cashier.   We argued, and I refuted that he could not lie to me as he had in the past—I wasn’t the little girl he had known ten years before.  He left and that was the last time we spoke.

Not to long after our argument, and back in the US, I received  a message in of all places my Last.FM account from a friend of his, a man I despised, telling me that Bombo was dead.  In the days and weeks to come I’d hear stories of violent possibilities into the ways he was murdered.  One thing was known, he’d received a phone call that his grandmother was ill and that he should rush to the hills where she lived.  That was the last time anyone would ever admit to seeing him alive.

When a mass grave was found in Taxco his family donated DNA samples hoping they would find a match to his body and that we would no longer wonder where his remains might be.  I  sadly confess, he wasn’t one of the identified bodies.  Sadly, because I imagine he is dead but I refuse to accept it until it is confirmed by physical evidence.  He was an economic support to his family, helping them financially even during his years of incarceration.  Thus, I know that he would’ve financially helped them out even if he had gone into hiding, I imagined envelopes of cash mysteriously appearing.  No unexpected financial support has ever arrived to his family since his disappearance, for this reason,  and only because of that, do I believe there may be a chance he is dead.  While logic tells me he is gone and will never return I refuse to fully allow myself to believe it. I want proof of his demise.

The home my family owns in Taxco used to belong to Bombo’s family (many generations ago) and he knows that house inside and out.  Locks couldn’t stop him.  He knew how to get into my house by jumping walls and terraces–he’d done it before and I became sure he would do it again to find me.  As I spent this last week in that house, every time I entered a room or turned down a corridor I would expect him to surprise me.  I’d come home at night and turn on the lights in the dark living room and fully expect him to be sitting there asking me to be quiet that he had a story to tell me, a way to explain everything.  I want him to tell me a great story.  I want him to forgive me for not helping him escape.
I want him to tell me that the last time we spoke we didn’t argue or maybe we did but that it doesn’t matter because this time we wouldn’t argue.

If I can’t have the real thing I’ll take his ghost.  His ghost who could offer solace.  I want it so badly.  I spoke with his sister this morning about how hard it was for me to accept he is gone.  That I wish that like the rest of his family I could accept it.  She tried to put me at ease by assuring me he was with God now and in the next life we would be with him.  I couldn’t bring myself to tell her that I don’t believe in God or a next life.  I wonder when this pain will go away.  When will I accept he is gone and never coming back?

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