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Perhaps this is the only way to grieve the big things—in snippets, pinches, little sips of sadness.
And I’m not the only one, Dedé thinks. Any Dominican of a certain generation would have jumped at that gunshot sound.
making these once intimate snapshots seem too famous to be the sisters she knew.
I was the one hurting her, insisting she be free.
realized that I’d just left a small cage to go into a bigger one, the size of our whole country.
I gave her my name, and she repeated it several times like she was tasting it.
The country people around the farm say that until the nail is hit, it doesn’t believe in the hammer.
I held on tight to my sister’s hands, no longer afraid of anything but that she might let go.
“Let’s try the country cure,” I say, and I verify that he is not a man to trust when he asks, “What cure is that?”
can’t even fall asleep tonight remembering Violeta’s prayer at the close of our group rosary: May I never experience all that it is possible to get used to.
Olga waves the theory away. “The gringos say too many things.”
My legs brushing fragrances off the vague bushes, the dark growing deeper as I walk away from the lights of the house.
People who kept their mouths shut when a little peep from everyone would have been a chorus the world couldn’t have ignored.
