There are nights that never end.

They do not remain in the past. They return quietly, without warning, and sit beside you as if they had never left.

One of those nights still lives in me.

During the Salvadoran civil war, when I was seven years old, a man died across the street from my house, asking for water.

His name was Mauricio.

I did not see him die.

I did not see the blood.

I did not see the wound that was taking his life.

“Water… please… water…”

It crossed the street as if distance no longer existed. As if war itself had opened a passage for suffering to enter every house at once.

My mother hid us beneath the bed.

I remember the darkness there, the smell of dust, the pressure of her body trying to shield us from the world outside.

When she heard him, she froze.

“No se puede… no se puede…”

To reach him, she would have had to step outside during the fighting. To step outside meant........

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)