I walked in on Dad skinning a pair of taut limes.
“Selena’s shooter died,” I announced.
Since we speak of actors in terms of the roles through which they most moved us, Dad understood.
Lupe Ontiveros, America’s maid, had given up cleaning, for good.
Dad handed me peeled ball. “Eat it,” he said. “You’ll never forget the flavor.”
I bit citric teste. I tasted how hippies who care about how they smell smell.
Leaning on knuckles against the dining room table, Dad asked,“How does it taste?”
“Sweet but mild. Passive. It also has bitter and sour. No flavor dominates. Their inability to work together is disconcerting.”
“That’s Mexico.” Returning to Selena’s shooter, he Eberted, “She was good. I liked her. She supported the rights of migrant workers. But you know who I really liked?” He paused, let his face fall, and cried, “No! NO! NOT RITCHIE!”
He grabbed a handful of dove-like paper napkins and threw them in the air.
Becoming her least favorite son, Bob, I grabbed Dad and held him. I cradled his maternal grief.
Lupe Ontiveros’ thumbelina ghost materialized in Tía’s TEXAS TEXAS TEXAS ashtray.
It strummed Sleep Walk on electric guitar.
I looked Dad in his lime eyes. “You like Ritchie’s Mom better?”
He nodded and pointed at my YO ♥ REALISMO MÁGICO mug, which was filled with instant coffee and ghosts swirling in it, cream.