Miraluz pressed herself against his back, and bent down to kiss his head. Her hands were warm on his neck. How long had it been since someone had touched him? Her touch awakened his body. He hadn’t died with his wife. He had waited for Doña Caridad to say something to make sense of her departure. Seventy years with his old lady, and she took part of his mind with her. Don’t, he wanted to tell Miraluz, whose fingers lifted away from him. Don’t move. I can’t bear the absence.

Miraluz let go of Don Chan and saw his body fold over. She listened to his soft exhale, and walked away to allow him privacy. She asked the driver to take her to the nearest phone to call Don Chan’s son, Santo, who had moved to the United States almost a decade ago. He would know what to do. She hoped that his wife, Esperanza, wouldn’t pick up the phone.

1

Boarding, Sto. Dgo. to NYC

1991

Months after his wife passed away, Don Chan found himself at Las Américas Airport in the city of Santo Domingo. He didn‘t trust manmade machines, but he boarded the airplane to New York City anyway. And for most of the trip, he pretended that he wasn‘t afraid of it crashing. He closed his eyes and leaned back. Periodically, he checked his shirt pocket for his passport, pen, and visa. Every few minutes he shifted in his seat in fear of numbness.

—Desea café? the young flight attendant asked with a big smile.

—No, gracias, he replied. While the coffee could‘ve settled his nerves, he didn‘t want to experience the awkwardness of finding the bathroom, only to obsess over the possibility that his waste would be spat into the sky. He knew the world was built in such a way that some got to piss in toilets high above everyone else while the less privileged sat at home thinking the piss was rain. He‘d rather wait until his arrival. His son, Santo, had insisted he come to New York. And while Don Chan resisted at first, the invitation came as a blessing. Now that his wife had passed, their small house in Los Llanos felt too large for him, and the coffee he made for himself was always bitter.

—Let me go, Viejo. It‘s my time, were Doña Caridad‘s last words. They rattled around Don Chan‘s head like pennies in a tin cup. Was she trying to tell him that there is a better time to die? Is that why she died so peacefully? What if he didn‘t recognize his time? What if his life was taken from him? Would his restless soul torture the living until he found peace? The end was near for Don Chan. He knew that much. But to think that he would have to walk into death at any moment without resistance preoccupied him.

When the wheels of the plane touched the ground, the passengers burst into applause. He felt relief in the pit of his stomach. He took a deep breath. He focused on seeing his son, Santo, and his grandchildren, one of whom had been born American and he had yet to meet. He tried to imagine what he would find outside that plane. He touched the woolen fabric of the seat in front of him to assure himself that it was real.