DOLORES: AN ANTIVENIN

Listen to those chimes.

Stargazing through the tiny, open

Hampton townhouse window.

Learned to spot the Big and Little Dippers.

So many years.

Made grown men and women from big boys and little misses.

¡Ay, dios mio!

Did the same for her own.

Wind rushed through the house, the maid in slippers.

Kisses for the children's foreheads.

Broken English tales of exotic flora and fauna shared in a whisper.

Tucked in the middle first.

Turned to the eldest, said

Veng, hel' me con you sister.

He obliged in kind.

Again he complimented her wonderful dinner.

Her eyes lit up.

Kissed Dolores, helped lift her up.

Buenas noches.

Children put to bed.

With them, any last shred of innocence.

Sand through open fingertips.

No bits left to pick up.

Down the steps to an old, beat up pickup.

Passed the same face in the foyer as the youngest she just burped through hiccups,

but feels chills when eyes link up.

These look straight through her instead.

They've turned cold and grey somewhere along the way, close to dead.

Dolores froze.

But if she would've spoke,

she'd have opened like a locket:

If you're ever cold, she'd note,

there's warmth inside me.

I'm the pocket of an old winter coat.

But where Señora should've said I need you, now,

I don't.

Not much better from the mister.

Señor's disposition seems angry and bitter.

He won't even bother getting up.

The screen on his pocket machine lit up.

Digital church service, he hung his head.

His Lord has risen.

They're just two distant ships listing, not listening.

They dismissed her, then dismissed her.

Out the door.

Sign of the cross.

In her mother tongue:

Jesus, have mercy on us.