Now the three of you lie on the floor on your stomachs, sweaty forearms touching. It is almost like you are children again, playing invisible, and Sebastián, the youngest, has only left the room.
Sebastián has your mother’s eyes, dust brown, while Lucía’s are the color of molasses. You had hoped they would be identical. When they were born, their hazelnut bodies still sticky and warm, Tía Rosa called them little angels. Your father passed each baby into your child arms. Diego was too small to hold them, a baby himself, but he pressed his cracked lips to the palms of their hands. These strange tiny things your mother carried inside her so long. Seventeen now, they are too old for cradling.
You hear a car door creak open and slam closed, and then another, and another.
“Shake Hands Like a Man” by Billy Lombardo
“Gun Control” by Laura Adamczyk
“And When Were We in Delaware?” by Lex Sonne
“Sugar Pop” by Robin Kirk
