Elena Vasquez

The hospital room smelled of antiseptic and hope, the morning sun streaming through the blinds in golden slats that painted Mamá’s face with light. She was propped up in bed, her silver hair loose, a tray of half-eaten jello and toast pushed aside. Her eyes, once clouded with pain and secrets, sparkled with a fierceness that made my chest ache. Marco sat cross-legged on the foot of her bed, his laptop closed for once, his cut cheek scabbed but his smile real; wide, boyish, the ...