11 November 20

I opened the side door to the house and, as I entered the kitchen, I saw my Dad sitting on the living room floor, hypnotically rocking back and forth, his forearms over his knees as he held something in his hands. He waived for me to come closer. I approached cautiously, the wails and cries pierced every muscle in my body.

I heard another person crying, shrieks intertwined with gasps for air. As I entered the living room, I turned to my left and saw one of my Tia sitting on the couch, sobbing; I saw her tears and saliva run down her face and lips as she tried to speak, drenching a throw pillow that she clutched, contorting it with her fingers pressed deep into it.

I asked them what had happened. And, as I finished the last word in my question, I felt a knot in my throat, like a jagged rock had suddenly materialized there preventing me from uttering another word. I turned towards my Dad, still on the living room floor, he handed me an index card he was holding. I reached for it, hand trembling.

I held the index card with both hands, shaking slightly. I read it. My eyes began to water as they moved from word to word; each one Death’s harbinger but also a hopeful and seemingly endless deferral – until I read her name and there she died – D Avenue. I shook my head repeatedly and clenched my fists, slamming them on the wooden blinds next to me, breaking a few. I realized my backpack was still on me, pressing against my shoulders, cutting into my flesh. So, I took it off and as it slammed against the side door in the kitchen, shattering the beveled glass. I screamed; I fell to my knees, gasping for air, bawling; I paused to catch my breath; I could do nothing but stare at the side door, longingly, thinking why her? But, before that,

I took a last drag of my cigarette, tossed it on the sidewalk, and stepped on it before crossing D avenue. I walked west on 18th street and turned right on the following street, to my astonishment, my Dad’s gray truck was parked in front of our house. I smelled my right hand, and my heart began to race; the smell of cigarette smoke lingered on my skin and clothes. Before that,

I exited the bus by the liquor store close to my house. I felt the warm rays of the noon sun on my skin, a pleasant feeling after a cold morning. I took out a Marlboro red and lit it. I figured I had enough time to finish it before getting home. I stopped at D avenue and took another drag as I waited for my turn to cross the street. My friend texted me asking if I was doing anything on the weekend; I replied saying that I was down for whatever. Before that,

I woke up around 6 a.m. to the sounds of everyone in the house getting ready like usual. I gathered the textbooks I needed for the day, from the mess strewn over my bedroom floor, and put them inside my black JanSport backpack. Before heading to the kitchen, I took a quick peak at the living room and saw my nephews sound asleep, their eyes shut as they tossed and turned on the mattress. My aunt tried waking them up by tickling them, with the same gestures, loving smile, and contagious laughter that had once woken me up when I was younger. I smiled at the familiar scene. I headed towards the kitchen and opened the side door to the house, a green tea-filled travel mug in one hand and phone in the other and yelled that I was leaving. My aunt replied “okay mijo, que te vaya bien,” “Gracias!” I said before I closed the door and left for school.