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This was no miracle; there was no luck, no divinity. This was Santiago and me biting, jaws clenched, sucking life.
“Mi niña, this grief is ours.
“Crows come to feed off my grief.”
“He did, my beautiful girl. But you didn’t, did you?”
Wouldn’t that have been a groundbreaking discovery, someone bringing a creature to life solely with their own grief and a prodigious unwillingness to let go?
My mother thought I was a monster and didn’t love me because of it. This thing, an actual fucking monster, was loved.
“I thought you loved Monstrilio. But you only wanted Santiago back. Monstrilio was amazing. Look what we did to him.”
and I enjoyed the particular sense of joy one gets when feeling small, because when small, someone will protect you, or at least, someone should.
what they needed wasn’t acknowledgment or empathy or closure; it was escape.
which gesture could possibly communicate whatever mess of emotions were bubbling up as he watched his mother mourn the child she had been grooming him to replace.
I like saying, It’s fine. It’s a lie that seems smaller.
Papi held your hand. Mami held his. I often steal this memory from you, Santiago. Right before I go to sleep.
He just wants someone to love him and protect him
To my friends who are family and family who are friends for tirelessly cheering me on.
