Alive again.
You breathe slowly.
“She would recognize you,” you say.
He looks up, devastated.
You continue.
“But she would be very angry.”
He laughs through tears.
“She’d throw a sandal.”
“She would throw two.”
For the first time in a year, you both laugh together without bitterness.
Then Luis lowers his head.
“Can I do anything?”
You look at the table.
At the place where the bowl sat.
At the chair where Lupita used to sit.
At your son, still broken but finally looking at the damage without trying to decorate it.
“Yes,” you say. “You can bring dinner next Saturday. You can cook it. You can invite no one. And you can serve me first.”
He nods.
“I will.”
He does.
The meal is terrible.
Chicken overcooked.
Rice undercooked.
Beans too salty.
You eat every bite.
Not because it is good.
Because he serves it with both hands, eyes lowered, and says, “For you, Pa.”
