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It must have been a Saturday afternoon, the one day of the week when my father would take me across so we could get haircuts. Back then, “across” was shorthand for across the river, and “the river” was shorthand for the Rio Grande. We lived in Brownsville, and we were heading to Matamoros. This was fifty years ago, so bear with me. Much has passed since then, but certain events, however random and fleeting, continue to lap up against my memory because they never left me, and I’ve been trying to make sense of them ever since.There was the barbershop, across the street from a theater and half a block from Plaza Hidalgo. And there were the French doors that opened out to Calle Sexta, so…

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