My mama is dead. And I won’t ever be able to talk to her again. I won’t ever get to make her proud. I won’t ever get a chance to tell her how sorry I am for all the times I said things I had no business saying to her. But I’m sorry, Mama. I’m sorry for cussing at you and raising my voice. Sorry I accused you of playing favorites when I know you didn’t do it on purpose. I’m sorry for competing with the other kids for all your attention. Sorry for hating Paris all these years when she ain’t done nothing to me but try to be my big sister. And I’m real sorry for not going to college like you wanted me to. For not listening when you told me not to be in such a hurry to grow up. Look at what’s happened ’cause I didn’t listen to you. Eighteen years at the post office and a husband who cheats. I love my kids, but this ain’t what you dreamed for me, is it, Mama? It ain’t what I dreamed for me either. I know that now. I’m so sorry. But what I’m even more sorry about is that I won’t get another chance to tell you just how sorry I am. I hope you listening. I pray you can hear me. Can you? Can you hear me, Mama?

Dreaming in Black and White

“¡Espera momento!”

All I do is grit my teeth.

“Okay. Aqui estoy. Hola.”

“Collect, from Lewis,” I say.

“ Sì. I mean, yes. I will.”

“Hi, Luisa. This is Lewis.”

“I know that, Lewis. You must be in jail, too, hey?”

“Too? Who else you know is in here?”

“Just my little brother, my cousin, and two of my uncles. That’s only the boys. W’az up with you, Papì?”

I turn toward this cold brick wall so none of these dudes waiting behind me can hear what I say. “Look, Luisa. I only have about ten minutes, okay, and I need you to do a few things for me if you can. I know I haven’t called you in a while, but I’ve been in Vegas since my mama got sick, remember?”

“Yes, I remember. Is she better?”

“Much better. Thanks for asking.”

“ Es good. Su mama es a muy importante part of you. Glad to hear she’s doing well. Maybe I’ll meet her one day, Papì, hey?”

“We’ll see. Say, you got the forty dollars I mailed you in that Easter card, didn’t you?”

“ Sì. I couldn’t believe you didn’t forget. So why are you in there, Papì?”

“It ain’t important, it was just a misdemeanor.”

“Honestly?”

“I don’t have to lie about it.”

“True. So you already went to trial and everything?”

“Yeah.”

“You should’ve called. I would’ve come. I love going to trials.”

“You and every old lady in the Valley with silver hair who ain’t got nothing better to do than sit in on hearings of people they don’t know.”