Manuel Benavidez covered his weathered eyes. Tears built up inside but not a drop would refreshen his dry skin. His arms shaking violently trying desperately to hold back what his father had once told him, ‘El Hombre no llora.’ The cries from the women and children pierced the West Texas skies with a painful sorrow. In seconds what he knew of love was taken from him.
A tall man about 5’11 with full dark black hair always kept in place. Callous hands made of leather, forearms and biceps that could lift anything placed in front of him. An honest and hard working man who had come to Texas seeking a better life for his young wife Mary and his children. He was stitched by the wind, dust, and sun in the fields picking anything that would make them money and feed his family.
With the season done they were on their way home from working Mr. Butch’s Farms in Fort Morgan, Colorado. After stopping on the side of the road to check the trucks and allow his pregnant wife Mary a moment to walk and let the blood flow through. The Benavidez Family and Barrera Family were also aching for a break, with the young kids running wild and in desperate need to go to the bathroom. It was the same place that for years they would pull over, stretch the legs, use the bathroom, make sandwiches and relax for the remaining nine hour drive home.
Armandina Barrera the youngest daughter of Domingo and Florencia Barrera took out the bread and salami to make sandwiches for everyone to eat. Meanwhile Florencia went to see how her comadre Mary was feeling, being she was a mother of two boys and one girl and understood the discomfort of a long drive cramped in a truck.
Once Mary assured her all was fine, she walked to help her daughter to help with lunch. With the men checking the trucks to make sure they were fit for the final half of the trip life seemed normal. The trucks were full of their personal possessions as was the case when migrant families packed to leave to go work the fields.
The boys Celedonio and Servando, Domingo's boys were inspecting the tarp covering the treasures bought at garage sales Manuel would sell at Flea Markets to help keep the families financially solvent during the off season. From toys, to bikes, used tires, stoves, if Manuel felt he could double the money he'd buy it. Such was his life, a Mexican Gypsy per sea.
Mary meanwhile was walking and stretching her swollen legs, she was 7 months pregnant and was expecting their third child. She instructed her two daughters Dora and Maria to go help Armandina and Florencia with lunch. After taking some time and having a sandwich, she walked over to give Manuel his lunch. Soon after she walked between the two trucks to sit on the bumper and rest some more before the final drive home.
In a flash, the explosion of sound, a screeching sound of gravel dragging on hot asphalt, and the violent sound of a Semi-Truck hitting the truck scared everyone. When everyone looked to see what had happened, there was the beautiful Mary pinned to her death between the two parked trucks.
Life was no longer easy. The Sun didn’t set in the west smoothly, the moon would never rise again with the beautiful soul that was Mary. As the men tried in desperation to separate the trucks to free her, Manuel realized his heart had been ripped from his chest.
MAMA! MAMA! MAMA! Gilberto, Dora, and Maria screamed. Manuel uncovered his shaking hands and saw his life flee him. The confusion with what had just occurred had set in as quickly as the accident had happened. Guilt over whelmed his soul, yet the searing pain of his children overtook his grief.
Trying to comfort his daughters to no avail. Doña Florencia hugged the children to her chest while her own daughter clung to them. She blocked the death of her dear friend from her daughters. Gilberto stared in shock at his lifeless mother.
"Para empezar es un dia que no se me escapó todos estos años.” Manuel would tell me years later.
Note: This is the story of my family, the triumph and tragedies experienced yet overcame. The love story of two migrant families that became one.
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