Back then she didn‘t see the buildings as gray, or the city as grimy; or mind the crowds of people sitting on the front stoops catching a cold on a sunny day. The police might have called it loitering, but Esperanza called it community. She didn‘t think twice about the threat of nuclear war, the stock market crashing, the lack of trees, or the fact that the streets had the smell of an impossible dream. The sidewalks had given her a bounce that lifted her up above everyone else‘s head, despite the faces of the old black couple, looking out their window, who had survived the sixties only to find that their children still couldn‘t get a decent education, and that cops sat in their cars, perched like hawks seeking out prey. She didn‘t notice how her moving in was inspiring an exodus so great that the apartment prices had dropped and the Sanitation Department stopped making daily visits. All that didn‘t matter to her. The novel sights of the city were filled with a beauty only the unknown could hold.

Had it been almost ten years since their arrival? Back then, Bobby was stuttering words, Dallas a newborn, Santo with a full head of hair, black and thick. She was thirty and could easily fit into a size-six pair of jeans. She still had those jeans in her closet. We were so young, Esperanza thought, and remembered how all four of them, wearing thin sweaters, had huddled toward their new home on Quepasó Street.

And much like they had, Don Chan arrived in Nueva York on one of the coldest days of the season.

—It‘s to thicken the blood, Santo said buttoning up his coat as they quickly made their way to their building.

The postal worker pushed his cart and waved.

—Hola, Esperanza said, waving to him as if she were on a float in a parade. And Esperanza was in a parade. The whole world walked beside her, cheering her on. If she had heard music, she would‘ve started shaking her hips, bumping them into the Nueva York air.

—Look, Don Chan, we could send letters here.

In D.R., Esperanza had never sent a letter, because they never arrived. —That‘s when you know you‘re in civilization, she said, pointing to the man holding bushels of mail. —He has something to deliver.

—Is this it? Don Chan asked, looking at the impressive building that was bigger than what he had imagined. So this is brick, and stoops, fire escapes and lampposts. All things he had read about but had never seen. So this is a tree in a city: anemic, naked and alone among all the concrete. Music bounced inside apartments against the closed windows. Some neighbors pulled open their curtains to see who was entering the building. Cars honked their way up Quepasó Street, through the boys playing stickball.

Santo awkwardly opened the door‘s busted lock, and the building‘s lobby light twitched.

—¿Aquí se va la luz? Don Chan asked, noting how dark everything was.