Casey Lefante on Climbing too Close to the Sun, and Teotihuacan
In Teotihuacán, you climb the Pyramid of the Sun. You stand nearer to the edge than you think you should. Don’t watch the people who pant as they reach the top, their faces puffy and pink. Don’t watch the children who run as though they are on a playground and not a sacred temple. Don’t watch anything but the sky, stretched blue behind the Pyramid of the Moon, and above the Path of the Dead, across the brown-green landscape and around you, 360, and try not to think about how easy it would be to tilt a little bit forward, and try not to think about your body hitting the rocks, flesh then blood then bone—like a layer cake—and try, really try, not to think about all the people you know who will never stand this close to the sun.
On the three-hour ride back to San Miguel, the wind whips the rain into long tears as the bus speeds down the Mexican highway. Lights tease from a distance, and if you squint your eyes like this, and tilt your head like that, then you can almost believe you are home, tearing down the expressway, gazing upon the light of a city that some say care forgot. But you are not care.
It is only when a dark patch of trees blocks these lights that you snap back to your present tense, and you realize that you are passing a lake. Gripping the edge of your sweater sleeve, you clear the window’s condensation with one, quick sweep. You press your forehead to the glass and blink, your eyelashes brushing against the surface, and you force your eyes to search through the darkness and into the water, as though seeing is diving.