Nightlights

By Dixa Ashariel Ramirez

That’s what sleep is for, she said, with the finality of an oracle. I asked her what the heck she meant.

“That’s when they install upgrades. Think about it, Lita. Why do we need to sleep? Scientists don’t know.”

“I’m pretty sure scientists have it figured out.”

Come to think of it, I did recall a byline proclaiming that we, at bottom, did not really know what sleep was for, but I kept this to myself. I was hangry and wanted to argue.

“That’s not true. It doesn’t make any evolutionary sense!”

“I presume this is all according to Miguel?”

Miguel Fornero was a Puerto Rican UFOlogist beloved by the Fanáticos de lo Paranormal group my mom had joined in Santo Domingo.

“No, according to Doña Gladys’ latest transmission. Miguel did a LumenPost Live with her when she received it. She was in trance.”

“Who are these people supposedly talking to her?”

“They’re not people, Lita. They’re entities. Beings. From Sirius A. Or maybe it’s B. Doña Gladys describes them as tall, blue, and made out of light. Here, let me show you the video.”

“Ma, I’m driving!”

The Hyundai drove like a rattling tin can, gas pedal both resistant and obliging to the gravitational force of my espadrille, even after hours of driving.

“And, listen to this,” she continued, “the beings told Doña Gladys that the south will be a center of UFO activity in the next few years. Isn’t that amazing?”

I pursed my lips.

The south in question bordered Haiti. A desert. A savanna, actually. Short cacti dotted the dusty landscape. Yellow and, near the shore further south, an ochre prized by copper mining companies. Some peasants had recorded lights moving around their night sky a few months earlier. I saw the video and figured they were just laser beams from a local colmadón. Or drones signaling the landing of a shipment on one of the nearby rocky shores. One time, the local police busted a truck driver with 303 decoy plantains filled with cocaine. The news anchor described the ceramic plantains as “artisanal,” which cracked me up.

Word of the alleged UFO-video had even travelled to the diaspora via Telemundo’s Al Rojo Vivo. The event’s portfolio had swollen beyond the original video to include follow-up interviews with the witnesses, all poor and black and imbued with latent folk hero potential, and even a dembow track. Every few miles, we heard the frenetic “extraterre-rre-rre-rre-rre” ad lib booming from car speakers and rattling our tin can rental. Though Ma hated dembow, she approved of this singular track, reasoning that it might inspire people to become attuned to “the truth.”

When she retired and moved back to the Dominican Republic two years ago, Ma leaned into a lifelong interest in the paranormal. Specifically: aliens. A dedication to TV shows about “ancient astronauts” had escalated to a regional UFO conference in Puerto Rico and regular meet-ups with other Dominican “believers” and “experiencers.”

When she told me about attending the conference, I got worried. I complained to John that she could’ve at least waited until I had tenure to lose her marbles. He laughed and called me selfish and extra. But, since she’d moved back to the homeland, I was relieved that she was booked and busy. She claimed that the only thing she missed was Amazon Prime. Her best friend, a Colombian priest at her church back in the Heights, had helped her redecorate the Santo Domingo apartment she’d bought with her long-term boyfriend. Their inane gossip about people I didn’t know filled the car air for the first hour of our trip until I begged her to get off the phone and she finally relented. I could’ve sworn she got the shakes, like a drug addict on withdrawal. I asked her how a priest could be so involved in matters such as interior design, prodding. “He’s a Franciscan!” Ma responded brightly.

She’d met her long-term boyfriend at some diaspora event in the Bronx, and they had maintained a correspondence, haphazard from her side and impassioned from his. Ma was allergic to passion, ever since my father. She thought it was a problem if a man was handsome and charming, or if you were so into him that you thought about him when he wasn’t in front of you or, frankly, even while he’d planted himself in your line of sight.

That motherly lesson had sort of worked on me with my husband, who was stable and maybe a little boring, but, I reasoned, it didn’t bother me when he kissed me when we first met.

Which is why I had already cheated on him. Most recently with a softly trust-funded Marxist historian named Julián at a Latin American studies conference in Seville. While he tried to impress me with talk of unions and being “brown” in the academy (he was a white Chilean), I looked at his pretty, himbo face and wondered if I’d lick it when we inevitably ended up in bed. After a couple of hours of nodding to his Leninist performatives, we were fucking and doing coke in my hotel room. I have no idea how he got the drugs. I never knew how anyone got drugs, which my friends described as “pretty girl privilege.” Anyway, we did that for the next two days. I skipped my panel, pleading illness, my brain snap-crackle-popping like Rice Krispies when you poured milk on the grains.

I didn’t bother telling my mom about this latest one. When I, distraught, told her I’d cheated on John a few months before our wedding, she told me to calm down.

“Little adventures are meaningless and John doesn’t need to know. Stop being so honest, Carolita. That’s always been your weakness,” she had advised.

Julián had made his new relationship LumenPost official back in February. She was a pink-cheeked, outdoorsy type. I wondered what was worse: that he would date my opposite or some derivative. Both. I’d called him immediately, out of breath. When he didn’t pick up, I sent him a flurry of voice messages whisper-yelling (John was home) that of course he was dating some flat-affected Oatmelia. It was now July.

Beneath his gossamer-thin veneer of rationalism, Julián loved drama. I knew because he always had coke. Coke that he likely hid from the hiking one. I knew because he never ignored my texts, no matter how histrionic I got. The staunchest feminists would all agree: I’d throw a fit, no problem. The purest decolonial activists would admit: this mulata was spicy, passionate, and had hips, yes. He’d respond to my wildest texts performing Patience and repeating a version of, “you’re married, Carolita. Remember?”

When I felt like I was finally over him, around May, he sent a drunken “I miss you” voice message, which yanked me back down to the dregs of sticky desire. The yearning in his voice incited my longing to swell like a wave that refused to crest. The next day he left a shockingly sober message that he’d had too many Negronis, apologizing for “any confusion” and insisting that he was “sated” in his new relationship. I writhed around the marriage bed, possessed by the ghost of every nineteenth-century white-girl hysteric and whimpering that I was “just really stressed out” to my alarmed husband.

I kept warding off John’s increasingly tight-jawed requests to “set up a plan” to have a family. Schedule the pregnancy and the baby in relation to my tenure case. Pencil them in. Have it all.

I scheduled my flight when I knew he had an unmissable work project. I could tell Ma smelled a rat, but the UFO-themed trip was a perfect distraction. 

“Vanessa just texted that they’re sight-seeing and will meet us back at the inn for dinner,” Ma said.

“I hope this place isn’t a dump.”

“The pictures looked nice. Anyway, that’s not the point of the trip. It’s perfectly located just an hour away from the sighting.”

Thirty minutes later, we spotted the D’Arelis hair salon by its sign featuring a sun-washed Nicki Minaj in her pink hair era.

“There it is. Now what?”

“Turn left at the D’Arelis hair salon. Drive straight until you see a dirt road on the left. Turn into that road. Keep going until you see the arrow sign for Hostal Guten Tag. Follow the arrow until you see an iron gate.”

About forty minutes and several wrong turns later, we were drinking fresh tamarind juice on the front porch of a large wooden house, chatting with the owners. They were an old German couple who had moved to the country a decade earlier and had already complained about the “lazy and corrupt” locals. I was too tired to be a defender of my people. I had gotten into it with self-described expats before and it had led to nothing but my own misery. That type didn’t budge.

“You’ve finished your juice. Let’s get you some more. Nemecia!” Out came the sullen woman. Slowly. Dragging her feet. Wearing a pink camisole tucked into rhinestone jeans, she glared at me with unvarnished contempt. Her feet and hands evinced a life spent washing-scrubbing-rubbing-boiling-stirring-hauling-peeling.

I sensed in her contempt a chain of thoughts. Look at these two. The mother with her hair in a short Afro, as if she couldn’t drag her ass on her one day off to some shack that called itself a salon to endure the infernal heat of a half-broken hood dryer, knowing there was a slight chance it would electrocute you, knowing there was a higher chance of a blackout and you’d have go home wearing rollers and you mopped the floor with Mistolín and, if the electricity deigned to grace you before bedtime, you’d go back for Arelis to finish the job in which case you’d skim a little off the fee, for the inconvenience and all. You’d pay Arelis to burn your head with a blow dryer, a hot comb, and with lye that smelled like rotten eggs and you did all that so your pelo vivo would play dead, be dead, communicate to the world that you knew your place, that you knew that the hair that grew out of your head was wrong, and that you wouldn’t submit the world to such a sight and here was this negra negra with her expensive jewelry and her smile as if her hair was good. And then there was the yellow daughter with that brass-colored wilderness on her head, looking like a bad-haired Shakira.

“¿Sí, doña?”

“Is there more tamarind juice? Our guests would like more.”

“Sí, doña.”

“I hope it’s not a huge bother.” My mom smiled and put her glass on the tray Nemecia held out.

“So, you’re visiting Sábana Limpia tomorrow,” said the German woman.

“Yes, that’s where those people filmed the UFOs. Have you heard about it?”

“Of course! That’s all everyone talks about these days. But we’re not complaining, right, Dietrich? We’ve had at least six different groups stay here in the last month because of that. We’re the only decent place to stay around here.” She likely wasn’t wrong, though the decency was yet to be determined. This region wasn’t known for tourism.

After our second glass of juice, Dietrich and Elsa showed us our rooms.

“Nice, eh?”

He looked at me expectantly from under his awning eyebrows. I marveled at being so comfortably colonial that you walked around looking like that. The tacky towel swans on the bed kissed. I smiled wanly.

After washing my face and hands, I got into bed with Angel Rama’s book and dozed off thinking about his tragic death by plane crash. Loud knocking startled me awake and I drowsily said come in. Ma opened the door brusquely. She announced that it was already six, what was I doing in the same shorts I had driven in, with my hair matted, eyes and mouth crusty? I apologized and started getting ready. Ma browsed through the scant items in my small suitcase and rambled about Vanessa and Carlos, who were already waiting downstairs.

“When you go downstairs, take a look at Vanessa’s purse, Lita. Tell me what brand it is.”

I muttered that she could just ask her what it was, and my mom said no way, a woman should never show that kind of weakness. I told her she was crazy. My mom had always seen other women as competition even if there was no man, no prize, nothing at all to win. I tuned her out while I changed and put on my face.

Once I’d perfected my eyeliner, I tuned back in. She was talking about Miguel the UFOlogist. Apparently, she’d sent him a private message on LumenPost, urging him to hop over to this island.

“I told him that I could introduce him to everyone in our group. He saw the message already. I’m sure he’ll reply soon. He’s a good guy. Bien simpatico. I can tell.”

“Okay, I’m ready.”

We went downstairs to meet my mom’s new friends, a Puerto Rican couple who regularly vacationed in this country and who had met my mom at the UFO conference.

“Is this your daughter? So pretty!”

Vanessa and Carlos were both small and pale and I could tell that they were comfortably upper-middle class. Wealthier Puerto Ricans would be vacationing in Casa de Campo with the good-haired Shakira and not with two black Dominican women in some random monte inn. Also, Vanessa’s purse was Coach and the shoes were those ubiquitous Tory Burch flats.

I dissociated during most of the dinner, nodding and smiling hither and thither, poking at my overcooked steak, while the three of them chatted excitedly about the tour. Carlos had found a local guide named Elías who’d drive us to the UFO people for “a special price.”

The other diners at D’Antonio’s, the only restaurant around, were a man with a hard belly straining against his shirt buttons and a statuesque, younger woman wearing stripper heels. One hand swiped at her phone screen and the other played with her long weave. I wondered if she’d gone to D’Arelis. He seemed content to be ignored. Expected it, perhaps. She didn’t even open her mouth to order and I overheard him ordering her a kid’s size mofongo. Approaching the town, we had driven past a set of those hourly love hotels that dotted the country.
​
I felt my phone vibrate, knowing that it was John. I declined the call and texted him that I was at dinner and would be in touch later. When I collapsed into bed back at the inn, I scrolled to the last sext exchange with Julián, which still inspired. I passed out holding the phone. 

---

The next morning, I dragged myself down to the porch where everyone had already started eating breakfast.

I poured hot coffee into one of those high-tea cups I hated, used as I was to drinking from garish, American ones. Nemecia appeared and glacially asked me “¿qué desea?”, her feline eyes drilling a hole into my third eye. I wasn’t hungry so I asked her for toast slapped with some cheese to go.

“The fresh passion fruit jam is delicious,” Vanessa offered, apropos of nothing.

Vanessa and Carlos both wore visors and fanny packs. Cringe but practical, I assessed. My mom wore a linen dress and sandals I’d already told her were ugly.

“Elías said he’ll be here at 7:30,” Carlos announced.

“That means eight, at the earliest,” my mom said, laughing.

“Ma and I are the only prompt Dominicans you’ll ever meet,” I said. “Honestly, it’s a curse to be on time around here.”

I drank about four “cups” of coffee, chatting banally, before Elías’s old minivan rolled up the dirt driveway an hour late. He climbed out and said good morning, so nice to meet you, I’m Elías. A tall, dark-brown-skinned hombre serio, he could’ve been either thirty-five or fifty-five, and wore a crisp shirt, grey trousers, and black loafers. No socks. Vanessa urged him to have some coffee and to eat something before we got on the road. I silently fumed that I could’ve gotten more sleep. We crossed through the inn’s iron gate, guarded by a mangy stray dog, at 9:33.

The minivan’s AC wasn’t working so we had to open the windows and my hair was a tangled mess by the time we got to our first stop, which was not a place as much as a no-place. Elías parked off the deserted highway and we walked for a few minutes in the brush until we gasped at the sight of a green-and-blue waterhole. A cenote of the kind sacred to the Mayans, it was a shimmering jewel crowning the pale-yellow dust and muted green desert flora. We posed for photos and, on the way back to the car, Elías pointed to a thicket of shrubs called guasábara, warning us against approaching; their poison-bearing thorns projectiled when they sensed animal heat. The spikes would burrow into the skin and the infection that would follow was no fun at all. “Plants like these helped the Taínos fight against the Spanish conquistadors,” Elías said. I imagined thirsty, bearded men wearing velvet and metal, just sweating and stinking, my God they must have stunk with all this heat and all that cloth, teeth rotting out of their heads, having to contend with all this vindictive flora.

Elías faithfully stopped at a couple of other noteworthy ecological spots. I was enjoying learning about a part of the country I’d never been to, but I sensed the three others’ growing impatience. They weren’t there to look at cacti and reptiles, they were there for UFOs, damn it.

Finally, we stopped at an intersection with a loud colmado playing Julio Iglesias and a small cluster of wooden and cement houses. Since our tour fee included food, we sat at the counter, waiting for our meal of the day. Elías greeted two men who were already eating. “Buen provecho, compai.” An old woman whose grey eyes sparkled against her dark skin emerged from the back.

“Tía Gertrudis, these are our guests for the day. Tía, what do you have for these fine people?” Then, turning to us, Elías clarified: “This is my aunt’s colmado. You’ll love her food.”

Soon, we were chowing down. Gertrudis had made coconut rice and stewed goat. No fried plantains because the vendor hadn’t shown up that morning. Several goats tied to a large mango tree watched us eating what I imagined was their sibling. I looked away, slightly nauseous.

Plates cleared, we enjoyed cold beers, waiting until Elías heard word from the UFO peasants. Finally, glancing up from his phone, he said that Manito and Tuta were ready for us. They were two of the original five who had spotted the UFOs. (Since the video had gone viral, the number of witnesses had swollen to dozens, hundreds, and even people living on the other side of the country were claiming to have seen it.) The other three, an old woman and her two adult daughters, were at the market in Pedernales, where they sold their arepas every Wednesday.

We walked over to a small wooden house painted a festive green. Manito and Tuta greeted us at the front but led us out back, near the fire pit that served as their kitchen and where I almost tripped over a bag of cement and about a dozen construction rods. Manita rushed over to hold me up by my arm and apologized. “We’re building small kitchen.” Elías had mentioned that we were the second group of visitors just that week.

There were a few mismatched plastic chairs, but not enough for everyone, so Elías and Tuto stood by the avocado tree while Manita fussed around bringing coffee, water, and passion fruit juice. I shooed away a chicken keen on pecking at my Keds, now dusty with savanna.

Ma, Vanessa, and Carlos excitedly asked our hosts about the UFOs, what they looked like (egg-shaped and glowing from inside), what time they had spotted them (around 9PM), whether they had seen any “pilots” (no), whether their movements defied the laws of physics (yes, they zipped up and down and sideways and flipped around like it was nothing), whether local authorities had contacted them (no, but they were open to talking to the President about it and other gentes de categoría), did they have a smell (all I could smell was the dried codfish our neighbor Monga had cooked, Manita recalled, but Tuto didn’t remember any smell), how did you feel (Manita was scared at first but then just curious and Tuto said that he was calm, which Manita denied, reminding him he was shaking and he laughed and admitted he was scared, yes, but looking back he shouldn’t have been), do you think “they” saw you (I felt like I was being watched, yes, Manita said, Tuto agreed), etcetera.

I enjoyed listening to Manita and Tuto recall the events of the night. What was this, if not folklore? I thought, smiling, thinking of the essay I could write about it. I imagined myself regaling Julián with the tale: Look, peasants! I’d say, triumphant. Superstition, wonder, and mystery: all distractions to keep the masses from rising up against injustice, he’d retort. Ugh. Suddenly, I wanted to cry. The leaves of the avocado tree rustled with the breeze and I willed my eyeballs to dry. I swallowed against the hot ball in my throat.

A prattle of children had circled the perimeter after their siestas, giggling when one of the outsiders glanced their way, until finally two of the girls skipped over to me and began to play with my hair. Their sweet caresses distracted me from my pathetic dejection and would have lulled me into a pleasant nap had they not also been firing questions at me. At some point, I noticed that the other adults had stood up and were stretching their limbs.

While the others were saying their goodbyes, Manita called me over from inside the house. We walked down a narrow passageway into a dark living room filled with ancient mahogany furniture. There was a blackout and the wooden shutters blocked out the natural light. She led me to a small table covered with framed photos I could barely see. She picked a school portrait of a little girl missing one of her front teeth and wearing her hair in braided pigtails. Manita began telling me about how her daughter, the girl’s mom, couldn’t afford the school uniform, or a notebook, or even a pencil. Could I please give her something, I looked so good and kind. I had no idea how much of the fee we had given Elías for this part of the trip ended up with Manita but I felt around my purse for my wallet and, squinting, pulled a green Dominican bill that converted to about twenty U.S. dollars. I folded it, playing along with the game of discretion, and handed it to her. She looked into my eyes as she took it and said, “You’re a good girl. May God protect you.” I muttered “Amen” and cut the gaze short, ashamed and annoyed.

John and I had once vacationed at a northern town. We drove to a beach famed for its beauty and rented some chaise lounges from a vendor. I had already slathered on sunscreen, gathered my fresh magazines, and settled my ass into the chaise like a roosting hen, when the sellers started coming. Every three or so minutes, at first, then nonstop, relay-style. They peddled beaded jewelry that said “Dominican Republic” but whose style wasn’t local at all; hideous, enormous paintings; the morning’s catch, blobbing shinily in plastic tubs; hair braiding; and baby oil massages. A few small children appeared, hands held out, asking for money. John kept patiently repeating no más dinero, but they maintained their positions by our chairs. Some of the same vendors returned a second or third time, just in case we’d changed our minds.
​
It was a cloudy Tuesday and, except for us and the sellers, the beach was empty. After thirty minutes of this ritual, I told John that we had to go. We both stood up and a hair-braider said to me, in Spanish, “Let him spend money. Let him spend money.” Our eyes locked into each other’s, hard and enraged. All my self-indulgent liberal compassion burnt off. Her gaze seemed to say, your shit stinks too, bitch. John, who didn’t speak Spanish and was busy flagging the chaise lounge guy to pay him, didn’t notice the interaction. But he sensed my lava fury and whispered to stay calm. I trudged on the sand with our crap, looking goofy and listening to their laughter. I overheard a vendor say, “look at her face, long like a turd.” Tears burned my face, despite all my efforts. John glanced at me, confused, concerned, and naïve. His blue eyes big and soft and kind. They hadn’t known a reason to be hard. 

---

The owners had left to play bingo, but Nemecia awaited our dinner orders. Once Elías’s minivan drove off, Carlos revealed that one of the men at the colmado had offered to show us the lights. He’d seen them every night for weeks. Sometimes, he said, one or two of them hovered low enough for them to discern the glowing egg form. If we could meet him back in Sábana Limpia later that night, he’d drive us out to where he could guarantee a sighting. Just five, six hundred dollars, he said, and warned Carlos not to tell Elías, claiming that Elías didn’t like to share business. Plus, he didn’t know how to find the lights. Carlos admitted that the whole thing was a little strange, but he also really wanted to see the lights. Right?

“I think we’ll regret it if we don’t. Right?” Vanessa echoed, staring expectantly at my mother.

My mom seemed to hesitate.

“There’s no way you’re going, Ma,” I interjected, panic rising.

“Well, why else did we come out here? This could be an incredible opportunity, Lita,” she said, like she was trying to convince herself.

“Exactly!” Vanessa said.

Carlos said he’d text the guy and check in. Feel things out a bit.

I excused myself to go to the bathroom, angry and scared that my mom would go deeper into the boonies to meet some random, sketchy man. I spotted Nemecia at the end of the hallway, hunched over the kitchen sink, suds sliding down her arms.

Without looking up, she said, “Mira, come here.” Her voice was so low that I barely heard her over Carlos’ booming laughter. I walked the few steps between us and waited.

Still looking down at the dishes, she said, “Be careful with those people.”

“Which people?”

“I overheard el boricua talking about seeing the lights with a man from Sábana Limpia. You and your mom shouldn’t go. They just want to steal your money and valuables. I don’t know if you can warn your friends without connecting it to me.”

“I don’t . . . understand.”

She shook her head but continued.

“Those people know foreigners are staying here and they’re taking advantage. They must be threatening people to not say anything, because the guests keep leaving first thing and don’t say anything to the owners. Those men know I’m working here so I just don’t want to get involved, but you and your mom seem nice and I don’t want you to get robbed.”

She glanced over my shoulder and, for the first time, looked into my eyes. Her gaze lacked the contempt I’d noticed before. Or, perhaps, imagined.

“Those lights have been showing up regularly, if you know where to look. It’s like they respond to you. Maybe they’ll show up tonight. There’s a good spot to see them a few minutes’ walk down a path back there. But I can’t promise you anything.”

I thought about this, their responsiveness. And I realized that this was the first time I thought about the lights, or the egg things, themselves. It’s as if I needed Nemecia’s tone to register their strangeness. Away from the fanfare, the discourse, the culture.

“I’d love that. And I’m sure my mom would too. I just have to somehow convince her not to go without alerting the other two.”

“Maybe there’s a way to warn them but that doesn’t get back to me. I don’t know. I need this job.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

I went into the bathroom and texted Ma. I prayed she wouldn’t unthinkingly read it out loud as was her habit.
“Talk to me privately when dinner is over. You can’t go.”

I then skimmed John’s texts and replied: “I miss u too” with a blue heart emoji, ignoring his more specific questions.

When I returned to the porch, Nemecia was taking final drink orders. I ordered a Brugal, neat, and a bottle of water. My mom stared at me with question marks in her eyes, but thankfully said nothing.

“Lita, the man texted me back,” Carlos told me. “He said we should aim to be there by ten. I already bargained him down to $500 but we should take a few hundred more just in case.”

“It’s still early, so we can finish our drink. I need to change, though,” Vanessa added. “It gets chilly here at night. Are you two going to change?”

Panic. I’d been looking forward to a quiet night with the sexts but, if Ma insisted on going, I’d have to accompany her.

“You know what? I don’t think I can make it, after all,” I heard her say. “I just got the worst headache. And there’s no pill that will get rid of these kinds of headaches. Just a good night’s rest.”

Carlos looked up from his phone at my mother, who sipped her iced water. She was one of those people who breezily bailed on anything at any time, a habit that had annoyed me until tonight.

“Oh. Well, all right. Are you sure?” Carlos responded, crestfallen. “What if we can capture the UFO ourselves and release our own viral video?”

“Oh, I hope you do! I can’t wait to see the footage tomorrow,” said Ma, serenely.

Vanessa furrowed her brow and looked at her husband.

“Maybe we shouldn’t go either, Carlos. I don’t know…We don’t know that man.”

“What? Vanessa, don’t be silly. Remember we talked about not having stereotypes about Dominicans.”

“I’m sure it’s fine,” I said, sipping my rum. “Besides, Ma was telling me that this region is going to be the latest UFO hotspot. Imagine telling everyone that you were here in the early days.”

“Exactly! Vanessa, por Dios, don’t get paranoid on me now. We’ve been coming to this beautiful island for years and people have been nothing but kind.” His blue eyes crinkled towards my mom.

On the drive back from Sábana Limpia, Elías asked us how long we’d lived in the U.S. Vanessa and Carlos said they lived in San Juan, though they frequently visited family in Miami.

“When we left for the States back in ’92, I missed my island and my family so much,” replied my mother.

“You needed to save money to return,” Vanessa added.

“Well, that and we didn’t have papers. We couldn’t just get on a plane and return to the U.S. without them.”

“Your mom was telling me she’s visited our island, but what about you, Carolita?” asked Vanessa.

“I went to a conference in San Juan a couple of years ago. I travelled around and, honestly, I preferred Ponce. It felt more Caribbean.” I added that last part because I knew it would upset her.

“Really? Ponceños are so snobby. Their motto is ‘La ciudad señorial.’ The city of knights. Can you believe it?” Vanessa said.

“I love that about them,” I added. Silence ensued.

About an hour later, Ma and I waved goodbye to Vanessa and Carlos from the porch as they backed out in their rental yipeta.

“Text us if you have reception!” my mom called out.

We all waved.

By the time the SUV lights disappeared into the darkness of the boonies, Nemecia had bussed the empty glasses and bottles from the table.

“So, what’s going on?”

“Nemecia told me that she knows a place nearby where she can see the lights sometimes. I figured maybe we could just do that. Give her fifty bucks.”

“Why didn’t you tell Vanessa and Carlos? That would’ve been easier for them!”

“Because Nemecia can’t guarantee we’ll see them. Plus, she doesn’t want the owners to know about any of this.”

“Ah,” she nodded, recognizing the subtext.

“Besides,” I added. “I wanted to see the lights with you. I’m kind of intrigued now.”
​
I was only half lying.

---

​Dixa Ashariel Ramirez is back to writing fiction after a long sidequest as a literary scholar. Her first novel, Mist, will be released in March 2026.