Mateo,

I still have your photograph on the wall. The one from your baptism. You were three months old, asleep in the white gown your grandmother sewed. You looked like an angel. I didn't believe in angels before you. I don't know if I believe in them now.

People visit the house. They see the photograph. No one asks about it. I haven't decided if that's worse than if they did.

Your sisters don't ask anymore. Ana remembers you. Lucia does not. She will grow up knowing your name but not your voice. I will tell her. I will tell her about the way you laughed when I tickled your feet, the way you said "Mama" before you said anything else, the way you held my hand at the clinic even when you were too weak to speak.

I hold that memory. I hold it for all of us.

The photograph stays on the wall. The frame is dusty. I should clean it.

Maybe tomorrow.

Te quiero, mijo.
Mama

Mateo,

I still have your photograph on the wall. The one from your baptism. You were three months old, asleep in the white gown your grandmother sewed. You looked like an angel. I didn't believe in angels before you. I don't know if I believe in them now.

People visit the house. They see the photograph. No one asks about it. I haven't decided if that's worse than if they did.

Your sisters don't ask anymore. Ana remembers you. Lucia does not. She will grow up knowing your name but not your voice. I will tell her. I will tell her about the way you laughed when I tickled your feet, the way you said "Mama" before you said anything else, the way you held my hand at the clinic even when you were too weak to speak.

I hold that memory. I hold it for all of us.

The photograph stays on the wall. The frame is dusty. I should clean it.

Maybe tomorrow.

Te quiero, mijo.
Mama