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I wrote this piece about a year ago, and I'd like feedback on this part:
Diego digs his old huaraches into the sterilized floor of the doctor's office as he hears the
news that the doctor just delivered. Cancer. No cures. Limpas. Or Jugos de nopal, made by his
late wife, Esperanza, could have prepared him for this.
"Did you hear me, Mr. Sanchez? You have cancer. It's terminal. Termino. Do you
understand what this means? Comprende?"
Diego nods his head reluctantly; his mind is still in shock. Memories of early mornings
visiting the market with his wife flood his mind, followed by the day he lost her. Seven years ago
, when he had woken up early, just like he did every Sunday, getting ready to take his wife to
market. He had prepared coffee in the olla de barro just as he had watched his wife do every
morning. The scent filled the air as he excitedly walked to their bedroom to wake her.
"Mmm. Hule a cafe," he teased to wake her.
No response, his stomach filled with dread
"Vieja?" he shakes her.
Nothing.
That morning was a busy one. Neighbors flooded the street, chismosos peering from their
windows to catch a glimpse of what was going on. The aftermath was all his neighbors coming
together and praying for days, praying for Esperanza's soul to get into heaven, her image
surrounded by flowers and different virgens to guide his wife's precious soul to the pearly gates
of heaven. He could hardly listen to the prayers; however, as doubts seeped into his mind, his
wife, his home, was gone. The scent of café and pan filled the room after every prayer, his
neighbors taking the opportunity to catch up with each other or offer their condolences and well
wishes to the freshly widowed man.
The thought that he would soon be joining his wife was comforting yet frightening. Their
plan had always been to stay in America for a year to raise enough money to buy a lovely house
in their pueblito. One year turned into two, two into three, and they had spent forty years in the
United States before his wife passed away. Back when they first came up with the plan to go to
America, he had made arrangements for his wife to travel to the US without trouble; he,
however, would have to figure things out himself.
Sobar
Her brown, old, fragile hands pressed up against my bare abdomen
Carefully rubbing the ache away
Ancient rituals
The stuff you can't get in books
Never forgotten
Mother to daughter
So on and so forth
Generations of healers
Never of doctors
Wise women know better
sobar y sobar
Till the ache goes away