If only she had just stayed in Mexico. Even next to homeless. Even not knowing anybody. Even weeping her guts out every moment we weren’t together. If only she’d stayed. Brokenhearted and hungry and so lonely, her chest aching like a part of her flesh was still pinned to me and Dad and Abuela here in Arizona, aching as though she were dying, dying, but not actually dying, not completely. That’s better than dead, right?
