—Oh my, Don Chan said as he read the first few lines. —Pobre mujer, he said, forgetting to tell Santo about Esperanza. The poor woman had missed her son‘s first steps because she desperately wanted to go back home to D.R. and buy a house in which to retire. She deprived herself of good, comfortable shoes to the point that her bunions forced her to double her shoe size. All this so she could save for the house she never got to live in. She had never taken a vacation to visit her family back home, because she didn‘t have the time, because she was trying to save money. Even when her homesickness brought her to tears. The vision of her life in the future kept her going. And now, she had nothing. She was dead without a future, and worse, without a present she could enjoy. The article ended with her son‘s quote, ”Mami worked very hard.“

—I think I knew this woman. Sí, sí, she frequented the luncheonette. For take-out coffee mostly. Brief hellos. Always in a hurry, Don Chan said, and the story saddened him so much his eyes watered. A terrible thing that happens with old age. He could no longer control certain things about his body, such as his tear ducts, the weakness of his knees, and losing his breath when climbing a few flights of stairs.

Santo took the paper away from Don Chan and sat in his usual corner to finish reading before he departed for work. To read the articles and feel informed made the day worthwhile. It also gave him something to talk about with his father and his passengers.

—You know that about twenty people a year die from something that falls out of a window? Santo said in disbelief.

Don Chan went to catch Esperanza. But when he saw Esperanza sitting at the edge of her bed, her head tucked into her shoulders, the way she hunched over the letters and gripped the envelopes, her knuckles swelling into a puffy red, he felt a deep sorrow for her. Or was he feeling sorrow for the woman who died? Poor woman, her life snatched by a stupid pot, an unexpected wind, a careless tenant who didn‘t take the precautions to secure the pot outside their window. Don Chan startled Esperanza as he hovered in front of her bedroom door. She stuffed the envelopes in her drawer and pressed down her shirt as if the wrinkles exposed her fears, her worries, her troubles.

—Do you need something? Esperanza‘s eyes were misty.

—Well, I wanted to…Don Chan had forgotten why he had rushed into her room. He was angry with her. Ah yes, she was in trouble.

—I was thinking of preparing you octopus tomorrow, she said as she picked up her clothes from the ironing board. —I heard they came in fresh at the fish market.

—Sí, sí, that sounds nice, Don Chan said, surprised by the gesture. How did she know he liked octopus?