Your abuelito is dead, Papa says early one morning in my room. Está muerto, and then as if he just heard the news himself, crumples like a coat and cries, my brave Papa cries. I have never seen my Papa cry and I don’t know what to do.
But I think diseases have no eyes. They pick with a dizzy finger anyone, just anyone.
What about a house, I say, because that’s what I came for.
Ah, yes, a home in the heart. I see a home in the heart.
His name was Geraldo. And his home is in another country. The ones he left behind are far away, will wonder, shrug, remember. Geraldo—he went north … we never heard from him again.