I walk down the long dark hallway past the closets and bathroom; past my uncle Victor’s diploma from refrigeration school, which he never used; a cracked mirror (Gorda believes it’s one of the reasons her husband, Raful, left her); a Ziplocked bag filled with Holy Water, to counteract the broken mirror; my grandmother’s collection of quinceañera dolls, (she regrettably never celebrated her fifteenth birthday); my grandfather’s walker and a year’s supply of adult diapers that the government sent to us compliments of Medicaid.
