A Child of Immigrants
BY ÁNGEL GARCÍA
The phone rings. I pick up. The voice, unrecognizable. Distant words. Between, I hear my mother’s name. I cover the mouthpiece and call out for her to pick up. From somewhere else, she answers the line. Yells from another room, okay, hang up. Only, I don’t. In a language I know will never be mine she speaks to someone in a country I will never know. Still, I listen. I coil the cord around my finger, fist, and wrist. Long after she says goodbye and hangs up, I’m still marked by what I don’t understand.
Burials
BY ÁNGEL GARCÍA
