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Her son was alive and now he isn’t. No thunder, no angels weeping, no cloaked Death, no grace;
Is this in comparison to christ ?
one whimpering man is no audience.
for things to become real, I must be able to name them in Spanish.
We didn’t so much exist as much as we haunted, and with no one else to haunt, we haunted each other.
his sadness was his and I couldn’t steal it.
In a version of events, I called her beforehand. In another, the one I like to believe, she knew to be at the airport because she knows how to love me the best.
the Mexico City sun suddenly a stranger to me.
My name from her mouth fell heavy, as heavy as heat.
As much as my mother annoyed me, she was most formidable.
this grief is ours.
I once loved to make a big deal.
After this, he became cautious with his rants, stopping himself before he became too excited. I hated the lung for teaching him such self-restraint.
But Santiago said no, God chooses who he cares for, and he hadn’t chosen us.
She hated churches, God specifically, a deep scorn only possible if there was love to begin with, so she didn’t go to the mass, not even for me, and I wouldn’t have asked.
In another life, she would have been my wife. In this life, I should have pushed her hand away, saved her from me. I let her touch linger.
“Do you not like her?” I asked, and when she told me she did, her plump cheeks flushed, I relished the knowledge that she was lying.
Lena’s love was a secret treasure I held dear, supposed to be only my own.
I was tempted to pray for her, but God is a scumbag; he wouldn’t answer any prayers of mine.
I needed to break her before she broke me.
She despised church but not God.
I was too knotted in emotions to laugh, or cry, or kiss her. She was gorgeous.
We looked alike, I say. Of course, she says. I made you.
