In My Sky At Twilight [Kay]

Vasco Izar

There were a few old stuffed bears, and a stuffed crow, too. Little button eyes and stitches along the sides (where she’d ripped out part of the stuffing in a fit). An old necklace made of brushed stones. A stack of playing cards. Memories, all boxed up where they belonged. It’s amazing touching something after so long, expecting it to bring back her face, like a firework lighting up the night. It doesn’t work that way, mijos. Age fades the little memories, blurring them up like the sides of a bottle, or a candle burning down to the wick. I can still see them, bits and pieces. It’s probably better that they don’t fill up my head, they’d weigh me down and pull me forward, and force me to hunch over my shoulders.

We talked about if we wanted to keep them for Yani. Seemed a shame to throw things away that were still good, that she could use when she was old enough. I looked at her though, toddling around and growing into her own little person (you know, she smiled at me the other day? She’s the cutest little one ever), and I said that it was time. Time to pack away what we’d been dreading, what we’d left in boxes and put up to collect dust. There was a time when I held them in my heart, like sacred treasures. How could I let go of them when they were all I had left of her? She was in pieces, all around this house. I couldn’t just give them away, and lose her, too.

They don’t tell you what you’re supposed to do when someone dies. You sort of expect as a child that death happens, usually to your grandparents or someone distant enough that it hurts, but for your heart to build scar tissue. You say, it hurts, but I’ll go on, and you do. Folks tell you they’re sorry, and you’re sorry, too. You love what you lost, but you go on, in their memory. It’s easier when they’re older, because it’s the natural order for them to go first. But then there comes the time that you’re not ready—usually your mother, or in our case, our father. I saw him aging, getting slower. I saw the spots on his hands, and that he took longer to get up than before—but you don’t really see someone’s age until you’re old enough to know—when youth has passed you by, and there are little ones running around your feet.

When you bury one of your children—

You know the ice cold feeling of winter in your chest? When you take a breath and it hurts so badly that it burns? Or when you can feel the lump on the edge of your throat, but words can’t come because of all that you think was lost, gone, disappeared forever? It’s like falling down a well so deeply, the light at the top disappears, and you’re still falling.

I packed her things up in some boxes, and put them on her old red wagon. It made it easier to pull down the dirt road, and to think. It feels like I’m dragging her behind me, you know? I think I cried, walking that damn thing through the dirt. On a cold winter’s afternoon, a grown man dragging a little red wagon, and dripping tears. I must’ve been a sight. It feels like a pilgrimage, even if it’s just a few miles. There’s no one out now—not while Gabriel pushes his way through the mountains—but I know that it’s time, it’s time, and I have to bring them there now.

I have to admit—sharing the last name with the orphanage, gives me a bit of pride. I should’ve been here before but, I guess I put all of what I had in front of what I could do for these kids. But they deserve better, and I have a lot left to give. I hope that it would’ve made her proud. It’s the only thing I think, pulling back the little brass knocker and tapping away at the heavy door. And so I put on my best smile, and wipe away whatever evidence there was of my tears.

“Delivery amigos!” I say with a laugh. “Don’t let me freeze out here, eh?”