The streets are quiet now.  Words have been spoken.  Songs, some beautiful, others filled with sorrow are at rest.  At least until daylight.  

I think of earlier times when I was younger and wanted the world.  It was at my fingertips.  I was wide-eyed and full of dreams.  They had yet to be snatched.

My son Jhosep has just come into the room.  He has a small tray of fresh Mango and Papaya and sets it down on the table in front of me.  He is a good boy, well, I should say a good man, as he is nearing fifty.  The truth is he will always be my little protector.  Jhosep always watched out for me, even as a young man.  

His father left us for what he felt were reasons of the heart.  In plain speak, he loved another and it consumed him, mind, body, and soul.  I wish I could say that it did not matter, that Jhosep was not affected, but that is not the case.  We have just received news that his father has died in prison.  His crime was killing the woman he threw everything away for.  

There was some story of an intruder or another, by his family and friends who did not want to accept the truth, and even though Paz had always been a gentle, soft-spoken man who was quick to laugh, I knew that he was guilty. The only reason I knew it was true was because he confessed it to me.  

I was still awake on the night of the young woman's murder.  The air was thick as it is now and I couldn't sleep.  There was quick knock on the door.  I listened and heard it again, this time more urgently than before.  

"Yessenia.  Yessenia!  Open the door."

I quickly moved across the room and almost fell.  I did not want to wake Jhosep.  Paz came around so seldom that it was best not to get the boy's hopes up.

I cracked the door open with the chain still in place.  The smell of alcohol hit me at once.

"Why are you here Paz?  What have you done?"

I knew it was something.  My gut told me so.  For him to be here it must be very bad.

"Let me in Yessenia.  I need to talk to someone."

He was almost pleading.  At that moment everything he had ever done to hurt me, hurt us, faded away.  I saw the man who once loved me.  The man who picked fragrant mangos and presented one to me every day.

"A sweet to match your sweetness," he would say with a smile.  That was so long ago I thought, and in that moment I loved him as I had as a young girl.

I sighed and watched as my hand, seemingly on its own closed the door, unlatched the chain, opened the door once more and motioned him inside.  He was lost.  There was pain and confusion in his eyes and he embraced me tightly.

"I have done a terrible thing.  A terrible thing..."

Paz began to cry as he held me.  I did not push him away.  How could I?  In spite of everything he was still the father of my son.

After a few moments, which felt like an eternity, Paz slowly released me and sat down on the couch.

"You still have this thing?  I would have thought you'd replaced it by now," he said clearing his throat.

"I cherish it.  Stupid, I know, but tattered as it is, it holds memories," I replied and sat down in the chair by the open window.  The smell of  freshly baked bread filled my nostrils.

"Paz...what is this all about?" I asked after a brief moment of silence.

He clasped his hands together.

 " You were right.  You were right about everything.  I should have never left you and Jhosep.  I was a fool..."

"What's happened?"

"Coro is dead," he replied and I saw his mouth quiver.

"Dead?  How?  Did she have an accident...have you..."

"Yessenia stop.  Please stop.  I did it.  I killed her."

My stomach dropped and my chest began to throb.

"Oh, Paz.  Please tell me this isn't true.  It can't be true."

"I'm sorry," he said and rose from the couch.

"I caught her with the boy who runs the produce stand.  I knew she was restless but I never thought she would betray me."

I was already thinking of Jhosep.  How this would destroy him. 

"Are you sure?" I asked.  Hoping that this question would somehow change the reality of the situation.

"Yes.  I...,  I strangled her."

The police would later call it a crime of passion.  There was nothing passionate about it.

"What of her lover?"

Paz winced at the word.  He ran both hands through his rich mane of hair and shrugged, "I chased him away. I was scared that I would really hurt him.  Can you believe that?  Yessenia, I swear I didn't mean to, plan to do it. Things just got out of control...," he said in a whisper.

"I know," I replied and I believed him.  Paz was many things, but not a person who would go out of his way to physically harm another. No. Yet I could not take his side.  There was no side to take.  If he did this thing, and my spirit said he did, then there was nothing to do, but prepare for what was to come.

"My life is over," Paz said, beginning to choke up again.

"The fiana will be looking for you.  Perhaps it would be best if you turned yourself in.  Running around and hiding does no one any good."

My words were cold, perhaps harsh, but they needed to be said.  Just the fact that Paz was in my home meant danger.  The authorities could show up and things could quickly go dark.  I could not have that.  My boy was in the next room.

"You're afraid for Jhosep aren't you?  I shouldn't have come," he said and stood up.

I instinctively raised my hand to reach for him, then pulled it back and placed it underneath my thigh.

Paz looked down at me and smiled bitterly.

"Call them."

That was almost thirty-five years ago and it seems little has changed. The shops remain, are painted, and filled with things.  Couples marry, and have children; they grow up and move away.  We as parents, sit in the courtyard and drink Jupino and discuss what was and could have been.  Some days I feel old, other moments I do not, but I remember everything.  Many would say that is a good thing.  It beats being trapped in an empty space.  I am grateful, especially on days like this when Jhosep asks me to tell him the story of how Paz and I first met.  The request leaves me silent, for he has never asked before.  I'm sure that he has had his reasons.  Perhaps it is not something that all children ask.  I can only speak for myself.  I never asked my mother or father.  They were together and it was enough.  I suppose "enough" is not the right word.  It was mine.  As familiar as my favorite blanket and rag doll with her dark face and colorful headdress.  These things just were.

Jhosep waited for me to get comfortable and focused all of his attention on me.  I felt like an al pastor on the steps of the pulpit about to give a sermon.  His eyes were fixed and gaze sharp, ready to take it all in.  I sigh and begin the tale.  My words flow freely and after a few moments, I realize that I want to tell it.  Need to, for as much for me as for him.

As you know, my mother and father worked in the fields.  We didn't have much, but it was a happy home.  I was an only child, which was very rare, but I did not miss the noise and cramped spaces that my friends had to endure.  I enjoyed the quiet and my space then and still do.  Being alone was alright, but sometimes I admit loneliness crept in.  Mother was quick to encourage me to explore "the space inside my head" which brought laughter from us both.  Papa was attentive but liked his rest, so I did not bother him most days.  

The market was my favorite place to walk, sample the fresh cheese, and listen to the vendors haggle prices.  Everyone had a unique voice.  I'm sure there was unrest and politics as there are today, but as a child, my world was not filled with such things.  

I met your father the day before my seventeenth birthday.  Your grandmother sent me to the market to pick up a few things for my birthday dinner.  I was excited and my thoughts were about the cake that Papa promised. The produce stands were always in abundance and could trip you up if you weren't careful.  Paz was apparently not watching where he was going and fell practically at my feet. I laughed as I glanced down at him. I thought he was the most handsome boy I had ever seen. He had these cute dimples and an unruly mop of dark hair that hung in his eyes like a Havanese puppy.

"Hola bella," he said and smiled.  We were inseparable from that day on. 

I remember him being so sweet then.  There was nothing that he wouldn't do for me.  I knew some girls who would have tried to take advantage of a guy like that; I was not one of them.  I made the mistake of asking him for something out of the way once.  Just once.  I learned my lesson after that.  

One day we went walking through an orchid and Paz asked me if I wanted a mango.     

"Sure,"  I said and reached for one of the lower branches, but Paz stopped me and said,

"The best ones are on top."

"Why is that?" I asked.

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"They're not bruised yet, and besides, the bugs are too busy with the ones on the ground."

Now whether any of this was true, I haven't a clue, but it sure sounded impressive at the time.

So I pointed and said, "Ok, I want that one...right there."

It was a big juicy mango.  It was really high up and hung all by itself next to a thin branch.

He looked up at it and then at the branches and put on a brave face.  He started climbing the

tree.  I stood at the bottom and watched him go higher and higher and higher.  He slipped once,

but then finally made it to the spot.

"Paz!  Be careful!" I yelled up at him.

He smiled and said, "Don't worry Yessenia, I got this."

Your father started to inch over to the mango, little by little until he could just touch it.  I was so nervous but grew more excited with each moment.  He was almost there.  I smiled up at him and jumped up and down a bit, then I heard the branch snap.  Paz yelled and reached up, grabbing a handful of branches.  It happened so quickly, but to me, everything seemed to slow down.  There was nothing I could do.  He slammed down onto the ground.  I ran over to him.  He was moaning a bit, but still trying to be the big man about it.

"Blessed Virgin Mary!  Are you alright?!!!"  I yelled, close to being hysterical.

His eyes were closed and he was lying very still.  Slowly he opened his hands and inside was the mango.  I mean it was the most beautiful thing I ever saw.  I mean what he did, not the mango.  The mango was smashed to hell.  Juice was all over him.  Your Papa reached across his chest, scooped up a bit, and offered it to me.  I ate it off of his fingers, crying and kissing him.  We laughed.

"Your kisses are even sweeter now," he said.

I helped him up.  He had broken his wrist, but other than that was fine.  I thought this was the man I was going to spend the rest of my life with.

I stretched my legs and watched as Jhosep wiped a tear from his eye.

"What went wrong?" he asks.

"Things change.  People change," I reply.

There are preparations to be made and family to notify.  Paz's death is sudden.  At least to some.  His family was large, unlike my own, and it will no doubt turn into a spectacle of sorts.  Of this I am sure.  My interaction with them was brief and only when I absolutely had to.  Jhosep would beg to visit cousins and uncles who desperately wanted to teach him bad words and light firecrackers among other things boys do, and I would occasionally allow it.  Paz though was insistent that his son never see him during his incarceration.

"This is my wish.  No son should ever see this.  What would be the point?"

Who was I to argue?  I understood, but there was still a little boy who would never connect with his father.  I had to remind myself that this was all Paz's doing.  There was the hope that perhaps Jhosep would reach out as an adult.  I did not have a problem with that.  It would be his choice.  That is precisely what Jhosep did.

One morning my son knocked on my bedroom door to let me know he was on his way out.

"It's still dark out.  Where are you going?"

"To see Papa," he replied.

I opened the door and saw a younger version of Paz.  Same hair, dimples.  Same serious expression.  He was twenty-seven then.  More than enough time had passed for him to think things through.

 I was relieved and a bit sad.

"Give him my love.  Be careful.  The curves are hard to see."

"Are you referring to this dilemma or the actual streets?" he asked.

I smiled.  "I guess a bit of both."

My son returned later that evening looking calmer than I had seen him in years.  The ever-present creases across his forehead were gone and he smiled at me without opening his mouth.

"I look just like him."

"Yes.  Yes, you do."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Jhosep asked.

"You act like you never saw him before." 

"I guess I was too young."  

"Perhaps."

"Still, why didn't you say anything?"  

"What good would that have done?"

"I guess I would have felt like a part of something."

"What does that even mean Jhosep?"

He paused and shrugged.

"Papa says hello and that he misses you."

I nodded silently.  "What did you two talk about?"

"I asked him why he left us."

"And what did he have to say?"

"He said he was stupid."

"Ok. There's that."

"I also asked him about the woman."

"Why would you do that?  Haven't we all suffered enough?"

Jhosep sat down on the couch beside me and took my hand.

"I don't mean any disrespect Mama but this wasn't about you.  I had to do this for me.  I needed to know."

"Did he tell you the truth?"

"Yes.  I think as much as he could."

"How do you feel?" I asked.

"I don't think he meant to do it, but emotions got the best of him."

"Sounds like you're making excuses for him."

"No.  His heart got in the way.  He killed that woman and he's paying for it."

"The heart can make us do the most hurtful things, "I replied.  It was true then and is the testimony of millions.

I received both a letter and two phone calls to inform me that Paz had died.  The officer on the phone told me that Paz was stabbed to death.  

This news shocked me because once again violence covered him like a shroud.  I always thought that he would die in his sleep, safe in his cell or as we hoped, home after being paroled.  This was our dream.  A wish for his son and those who loved him.  It was a way to pick up the pieces of the broken past, but it never happened.  Paz was caught up in the middle of two inmates fighting over a smuggled candy bar.  The report was so senseless it was almost comical.  This was no way to leave the world.  I suppose the same could be said for the life he took.  I am sure her family agreed karma was served.  But had it been?  Poor judgment was dished out all around and no one was the victor.

 There was an investigation and what seemed to be mountains of paperwork.  We asked questions and were given answers completely absent of compassion.  The prison officials said there would be a small contribution to pay for the funeral.  Jhosep rolled his eyes, not believing that we would actually see a peso.  They were, surprisingly true to their word.  The money helped.  Didn't bring him back.  Couldn't provide solace, but did what money does.

I was considered the next of kin as we never officially divorced.  There were a lot of reasons that it never happened.  The main reason was I couldn't bring myself to do it.  All those years ago Paz sent the message that he had moved on, but in spite of that never asked for a divorce.  Maybe on some level, we both were fooling ourselves.  Even Jhosep was in the dark until the moment I signed the release forms at the prison.

"You two weren't still married were you?" he asked, hovering over me as I filled out the form.

"Yes, son.  We were."

"How is that possible?" he asked.

"I am sure that you have grown to realize that anything is possible.  Anything."

Jhosep shook his head and sighed.

"The secret lives of my mango-loving parents," he said and chuckled wryly.

"Shut up and find me another pen.  This one is out of ink."

  Paz was the father of my son and once upon a time the love of my life.  He gave up both of those treasures and in doing so made tears difficult to come by.  

Just like the pen; I was dry.

I often wonder what our life could have been.  If I had been enough.  If having a son meant a damn.  I think of these things in a breeze of bitterness and then it passes, leaving the sting and odor behind.  This is what I do not like about the past.  For every fine memory, there is another that pushes every song, a good thought, and a warm feeling aside, to replace them with fear, pain, and sorrow.  It is a struggle that I've lived with for as long as he and I parted ways.

On the way home from the prison I sat looking out of the passenger side window watching images moving so fast that just as you recognize them, they brush past out of reach.  You have to concentrate really hard to find a moment worth grasping.

I thought of our wedding day.  My father held my hand and whispered,

"You belong to another, but you will always be my little Coati."

It made me laugh. Right in the middle of this serious symbolic exchange.  I began to giggle and couldn't stop.  He nudged me, but then he too began to laugh.  Soon others joined in, not getting the joke, but enjoying the pureness of the moment.  Paz raised his hands and smiled,

"What can I say?  This is a day of joy."

And it was.  The cake was beautiful, three-tier, with brightly colored ribbons, that each of the unmarried girls grabbed and pulled until one found the ribbon with the gold ring.  She squealed in delight, upon the meaning that she would be next to marry.  Everyone else danced and cheered. It was a wonderful day.

Our first night together was simple and sweet.  Paz did not rush me. I think he was as nervous as I was. His hands were shaking as I stood before him and he pulled my night dress from my shoulders.  We kissed and I opened my eyes to find him staring into mine.

"Did you lose something?" I asked playfully.

"My wife.  She was just here..."

"Oh really?  Perhaps I could help you find her..."

"I would really appreciate that mam..."

I kissed him.

"There she is," he said and embraced me. I've never felt such love. I knew it would last forever. I prayed it would. I hoped it would.

 Why didn't it?

Paz's youngest brother, Anton, was the first to arrive for the wake.  A whole two hours early.  He was dressed in a dark brown suit that was a size too big and was carrying a small wreath.

"Did I get the time wrong my sister?" he asked and hugged me.

"You're early, but there is no harm in that. Here, sit down."

"Where is Jhosep?" he asked.

"He's picking up Aleja and Idurre."

"I wish I'd known.  I could have helped."

"No worries.  There is plenty to do here.  You can help me arrange the other wreaths," I said.  He was hesitant to go near the casket.

"Come now.  Paz is at rest.  Come say goodbye to your brother."

Anton slowly rose from the folding chair and moved towards the coffin.  He looked like an old man whose joints had failed him.  There was fear in his eyes; of what I did not know, but the pain overtook everything else and he started to cry.

"Look at him, Yessenia.  He looks like a ghost.  They put makeup on him.  Did they really think it would help?"

I glanced down at Paz.  He appeared at rest.  There were no lines on his face.  His skin was smooth and powdery, lips almost dark, hair combed and parted on the side, like a businessman.  But it was Paz all the same.

"It's tradition Anton.  Nothing more.  Now say your peace and be done with it.  There are others who may need your strength."

He stepped up to the opening of the casket and took a deep breath then placed his hand on Paz's chest.  Immediately tears fell from his bloodshot eyes.

"I am sorry brother.  I should have visited you more often."

I patted him on the back.  "No need to beat yourself up about it now."

"You're right," he said and wiped his eyes then placed the wreath on a thin wire stand.

I watched him, wondering what stories and personal memories he was holding.  Everyone would remember Paz in their own way. 

"May you finally have peace," he said and then began to help me with the room.

The turnout was larger than anyone expected.  As I mentioned, Paz was once as gentle as he was kind.  People remember that.  Even in the worst of times, people remember.  I sat with his sisters and held their hands as they sobbed.

"Paz was a good man.  That woman drove him to it with her loose ways.  Who could blame him?" Aleja cried.

I squeezed her hand.  "This is not the place for your obviously biased opinion. Keep it together girl. For his memory. For his sake," I scolded in a polite whisper.  

She swallowed the rest of her words and remained silent.

The rest of the evening was quiet.  Friends and family hugged and told each other that Paz was in a better place.  I listened, but I wasn't so sure.  He had done the worst thing a person could do and there was no guarantee that he wouldn't be judged as harshly in death as he was in life.  I knew he felt remorse and wished that he had just walked away.  He told me as much the last time I went to see him.  That day it rained and I recall thinking that my tears would never stop and somehow blend into the cool drops from the sky.  I cried for me.  I cried for him.

Paz sat across from me and held my hand.  I could hear the hushed voices of others.  I could see the longing in the eyes of the wives, girlfriends, and mothers who would gladly join forces to break out their loved ones if they could.  Was I among them?  Did I share their fantasy?  No.  I loved him, but I knew someone had died.  It was as simple as that.  Some would call me cold, but a life is a life is a life.  Paz knew it.  That is why in the end he turned himself in.  He tapped his fingers on the cold square slab of chipped green concrete that served as a table and looked at me for the last time.

"Yessenia, I keep having the same dream over and over.  I am in my kitchen and I am fighting with Coro.  She starts to mock me.  Tells me I am not a man and laughs.  There suddenly is a light and I walk towards it, then into it, leaving her behind.  She is still laughing at me, but this time I walk away.  Yessenia, this time I walk away."

I began to cry.  "If only Paz.  If only."

"Don't come again.  I need to move on.  You need to move on.  Look at these people Yessenia.  They are holding on to a dream.  Just like me.  Their lives will never be the same.  Most of these men are like me.  They will never come home."

He released my hand,  "I took your love for granted.  That is what I regret the most."

I would not see him alive again.

Jhosep is driving us home from the funeral.  I look out of the window and see the sky.  It is a brilliant powder blue and the rains have passed.  The air smells clean.  As if what was has finally been washed  and hung on the line to dry.

"What are you thinking about?" my son asks.

"What passion does..."