Doña Sosa

Doña Sosa greets her husband every morning with a kiss on his forehead. Since her daughter Olivia fell sick, her husband has made less and less of an effort to get out of bed. His fingers scrunch up like ginger roots, wrinkled and stiff, holding onto the sheets. His old cheeks drag around his neck, and, when he opens his eyes, he looks straight past her, as if his spirit already left the earth. Doña Sosa checks her husband's diaper, pulling up the sheets to smell. He has to be changed. Ten years ago she would have never imagined him in bed. Only on holidays did he not take his two mile walk by Riverside Park while smoking his pipe. She would make him his favorite majarete, grinding the corn the night before, leaving it on the table for him because she had a longer commute. He'd say, "I come from a father that at 102 is still shaking coconuts off trees, a little smoking won't kill me." But maybe the drinking will, she often thought, and looks at the clock over the bed to see if she has time to run up to the roof and speak to God. Ever since her husband had a stroke, she decided it would be fair enough to give God one morning out of the month. So the morning after a full moon she takes the much dreaded five flights of stairs and prays to God to give her one more year with her husband

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