Papa tells me one morning in my room. Esta muerto, and then as if he just heard the news himself, crumples like a coat and cries, my brave Papa cries. I have never seen my papa cry and i don't know what to do.
Your abuelito is dead
I know he will have to go away, that he will take a plane to Mexico.
All the uncles and aunts will be there, and they will have a black-and-white photo taken in front of the tomb with flowers shaped like spears in a white vase because this is how they send the dead away in that country.
Because Esperanza I am the oldest, my father has told me first, and now it's her turn to tell the others.
Papa, who wakes up tired in the dark, and is gone before they are awake, today is sitting on my bed. And I think if my own papa died what would I do.