“There doesn’t seem to be any end to these mountains,” I said. “These roads look the same as they did yesterday.”
Sherry and I had rented a car and were on vacation in Mexico.
“These Mexican mountains all look the same to me,” Sherry said. “They have narrow roads, none of them have guard rails and all of the other drivers are crazy.”
“Honk! Honk!”
A bus nearly pushed our little car off the road as it went around us.
We came around a curve and saw flashing red and blue lights ahead.
“Uh-oh,” I said. “It looks like an accident.”
When we got closer we could see where a vehicle had gone off the mountain. Two thousand feet below us was the remains of a Mexican bus.
“What happened?’ I asked a man who was sitting on a rock and gazing down the mountainside.”
“This is the bus that takes the women from our village to work at the hotels in Durango,” he said. “My wife rode this bus each morning for fifteen years.”
He began to sob.
A rescue worker came by and said, “Don Rafael, tears won’t bring your wife back.”
“That’s not why I’m crying,” the man replied. “I’m crying because my wife caught this bus every morning for fifteen years and this morning she missed it.”
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