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At five thirty on a February
Sunday morning the phone rang. I knew who it was and what it was
about. “Lo siento,”
said my mother. Encouraging words came out of her mouth as my cousins
sobbed on the other end. Language as they know it was non-existent:
gasps of air, sniffles, and cries came out. “Esa casa esta en caos,”
said my mother. Chaos. The main source of love and peace in that
house, my aunt Lucero, had passed on to the next world. Through years
of turmoil and strife, my aunt had been the balm to life’s
lacerations.
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