Solito

by Javier Zamora

Our bodies are the texts that carry the memories and therefore remembering is no less than reincarnation. —Katie Cannon (quoted in The Body Keeps the Score)

It’s because our parents are not here and we’re not there that Mays and Junes are sad. For most of us, our grandparents are the ones who show up for Mother’s and Father’s Day assemblies.

Don Dago is the coyote who took Mom to La USA four years ago. He’s been coming around the house more often. I can put two and two together. I’m my grade’s valedictorian; I get a diploma every year for being the best student.

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 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.

Patricia’s eyebrows touch, her face is red. 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.” Her

“Próxima, descansen cuatro días, okay?” All of us are still confused. “Okay?” he repeats louder, turning his head, both hands on the steering wheel. “Sí,” Patricia responds. “Rest four days.” Mister holds up four fingers. They’re fat and smooth. “Desierto, es malo.” “Think he’s gonna let us go,” Chino whispers to all of us.

“¿Nos va a dejar ir, señor?” Chino finally asks, slowly, pronouncing each syllable. “Sí,” Mister answers without hesitation. “Es día de suerte.”

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.