In Memory
. Abel was on the north corner of central plaza in El Paso when we met. Eighteen, already adept at selling skin to one-eyed sirens. I am hard at it Ese , was his first answer. I do it for my family on the other side , was his pitch. Amigos? Amigos are dead presidents in my pocket. I like work, but breathing hurts when I don’t eat. Early the next morning, I passed through the plaza of poorly-paid services and noticed him lying on a bench resting the smile of a child who forgot who he was. He wanted Nikes, so I gave in. Bought him a suitcase, filled it with angry tears and a camera, then took him back to Chihuahua. I made him take snapshots of los hijos de puta . When his mother called, the constant fear of the 80s got in the backseat of my car. I didn’t want to know. It stayed until he died the following year. A few tears were gathered here and there; I sewed them each to each and made a rosary. Looking at it makes me think of a poe