Angel wiped away the dust from his hands along with his agitation from a previous phone call with his mother. He muttered to himself under his breath that there was no reason to be angry. Her frustrations about his coming to America were understandable. She fumbled with her rosary every night the same way most Mexican mothers do. Angel just never found himself transcending to pearly white gates while sitting on dusty church pews the way his family seemed to. To him, religion was superstitious at best. Her divine ‘visions’ of his imminent oppression upon arriving in the States were just manifestations of her worry for him.
Angel found the only thing he could devote his life to was his work. Adobe and ladrillos were his rosary beads. His dirty calloused hands were a detailed storybook of all of the homes he had ever built. After twenty five years of building homes for rich politicians and tourists, it was finally his turn to build one for himself. He had pinched every peso between his fingers until he could afford to uproot his life and start a new one in the States. He considered himself lucky to have found a cheap piece of land in Southern Texas where he could relax, away from the superstitions of his homeland for a while.
The land was less than appealing. A swamp ran around the property, and the vines and weeds that webbed around the tree-line were proof that it had not been worked on by human hands in decades. Nonetheless, with his expertise he would transform it into his own kingdom. Angel picked up a large two-by-four and began sawing. Before long, his sweat was pouring from his forehead like a steadily leaking faucet, dripping onto the wood and soaking into the grains. Still, he tirelessly pushed and pulled. He didn’t even stop when a rusty nail sticking out of his new home’s foundation pierced his foot. His blood and sweat staining its skeleton would be testimonies to his persistence.
The next day his mother called again.
“Papacito, please come home. Your abuelita misses you and I dreamed again last night that you need to come home to us.”
“Mama, do not worry, I will build my home and then I will come back and take you and abuelita with me to live here. We will live a better life than you have ever dreamed.”
“Nino, I do not like you being there. God has told me it is not safe for you where you are.”
“Mama, I know you are worried about immigration and angry gringos, but when the government finishes reviewing our papers there will be nothing to be scared of. We deserve to live a life away from the corruption in Mexico. Now let me finish building this house, and I will come back for you soon.”
Ignoring his mother’s warning, Angel went back to tirelessly working on his new abode. First went up the walls, along with Angels angels strength. The backbreaking work taking every ounce of energy he could muster. Then went up the insulation, along with Angel’s breath. The plush fiberglass embedding into his lungs leading him to cough and sputter about. He would brush off the heaving on his pants and the walls of the house along with his worries knowing that this would finally be his last great construction project. Next went on the roof, along with Angel’s mind. Months into his project, working alone and the endless work began to grow in him. He began talking with the walls, with the wood, with the rats that roamed around him.
“Nothing will stop me, I will finally have my dream house.” He would mutter, to no response. Occasionally, the walls would groan back a faint echo, something that often sounded to him like his mother weeping.
On the final day of his project, as Angel put down the last nail and breathed a victorious sigh of relief, his mother called again.
“Mi hijo, they denied us. They denied me and your abuelita our citizenship,” she said sobbing.
“That’s ridiculous. Did they say anything about mine?”
“You have been approved, hijo, because you are already in the States, I do not know how this happened, hijo. Please come back, we can not be apart from you like this.”
“Don’t worry, Mama. I will pack my bags tonight. The house is finished. It is beautiful and it is a part of me and I will come back and we will figure this out. I will take you back here to live in this home meant just for us.”
That night as Angel packed his bag and his passport and finished putting away his tools, he took a moment to lie on the floor and gaze up at his masterpiece. He examined the fine work he had done, the masterful detailing on the floor boards, the smooth architecture of the ceiling. As he admired the skills of his craft, having poured every ounce of himself into the details, he knew this was the most beautiful house he had ever built. Exhausted, he began to drift off to sleep on the floor of his new home. He had visions of his new home housing the gods and the spirits. It was, after all, his place of worship, his place of pure devotion. It was as beautiful and sacred as any church. In its own way it was holy.
In the morning, as Angel woke and stretched his sore tired body, he couldn’t help but feel resentment at having to leave his beautiful new home. Being a good son, he relentlessly scooped up his belongings and began to make his way towards the door, but with every footstep a weight began to bear on him. His left foot would drag a little. With the next step, his right would weigh him down even more. By the time he got to the doorknob, his strength was completely gone. He fell to his knees and threw down his bags, heaving and coughing as he tried to turn the knob. His breath was gone. He could barely breathe as his fingers tugged and pulled at the locks. Sputtering curses and using all his might, he finally managed to crack open the door. As the sunlight poured down on Angel’s face, something began happening to his mind.
“I will have my dream. Nothing will stop me. Nothing will stop me. Nothing will stop me.”
Suddenly unable to move or think of anything other than his dream house, he crawled back to the center of the home. Every inch away from the door returned to him some more of his strength and pieces of his fragmented mind. He lay on the floor mustering the will to go to his mother and abuelita. Not knowing what had come over him, he threw his bags over his shoulder again and this time sprinted towards the open door. As his weak body fell through the door frame and collapsed at the entry, his mind completely left him. Staring up again at his work, he muttered, “Nothing will stop me, nothing. Nothing.”
Unable to move, unable to think, unable to breathe, Angel lay there for days losing sight of why he had wanted to leave in the first place. As he lay there, he listened only to the walls faintly cry, a weeping that was familiar, but he could no longer remember. As his mind, his strength, and his breath finally left his body, his spirit became tied inside the house where his blood, his sweat and his tears had taken root. Having never been one to go to church or listen to the calls of the great spirits, he eventually found himself, a spirit trapped in his own church.
