Charro Days
J.P. Stillwater
February steps lightly into Brownsville,
not knocking—
but singing.
The streets answer in color.
Serapes spill like sunsets from shoulders,
sombreros tilt toward the sun
as if greeting an old friend.
Here, laughter has a rhythm
learned long before borders had names.
Trumpets lift the air,
skirts bloom,
boots strike time against memory.
Charro Days—
not a festival, but a remembering.
Of handshakes across rivers,
of shared kitchens and shared prayers,
of a town that learned early
how to belong to more than one story.
Children wear history without knowing its weight,
paper flowers in their hair,
pride in their steps.
Abuelas smile,
because they recognize this joy—
they’ve seen it before,
and before that.
For a moment,
time loosens its grip.
Past and present dance cheek to cheek
down Elizabeth Street,
and Brownsville becomes
exactly what it has always been:
a bridge made of music,
a promise stitched in silk and sweat,
a place where celebration
is an act of love.
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