Solito

by Javier Zamora

Grandpa grabs my arm. Walks me past the door. “Don’t look back,” he says. But I do. I see Abuelita and Mali in the middle of the door, holding each other, Lupe has a hand on each of their shoulders. “Come on,” Grandpa says. And we walk.

Grandpa taught me to hold my left hand out far in front, my arm straight. Then, like a flag, I shift my fingers to the right. I line my index to the bottom of the sun, until my fingers reach the horizon. However many fingers there are, each equals fifteen minutes to sunset. Four fingers equals an hour.

Grandpa isn’t here to talk to me before falling asleep, to go out for walks and explore the town, and because of that I feel alone, lonely, solo, solito, solito de verdad.

She lifts her hands from our legs, suddenly turns toward the old lady, and says, “India pendeja, hija de sesenta mil putas, cerota mal parida.”

Mom likes to call them my “angels,” but I worry that takes away their humanity and their nonreligious capacity for love and compassion they showed a stranger.