Those last months. No way of wrapping it pretty or pretending otherwise: Rafa estaba jodido. By then it was only me and Mami taking care of him and we didn’t know what the fuck to do, what the fuck to say. So we just said nothing. My mom wasn’t the effusive type anyway, had one of those event-horizon personalities—shit just fell into her and you never really knew what she felt about it. She just seemed to take it, never gave anything off, not light, not heat. Crinkled her eyes, maybe, or frowned, but that was it. Me, I wouldn’t have wanted to talk even if she had been game. The few times my boys at school tried to bring it up, I flipped. Told them to mind their own fucking business. To get out of my face. I was seventeen and a half. Smoking so much bud that if I remembered an hour from any one of those days it would have been a lot.
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