Francisca’s father died this morning. With watery eyes and elegance she performed at Café Frida, singing her pain away. Her father taught her how to sing, or so she said, before dedicating a mariachi classic song to his memory. Meanwhile fajitas, enchiladas, tacos and guacamole were served at the tables, to customers avid of drinking hibiscus margaritas and breaking piñatas on Cinco de Mayo. Carlos’ father died in Paraguay two days ago, as Francisca, he cannot go back to his country; all prayers must be heard from a long distance. When Maria and I took a cab back to Astoria, we could see Oscar hugging Carlos under the rain, a metaphor to the catharsis he was experiencing after holding his breath for a couple of days.
As we crossed Central Park, Maria showed me a text message she had sent JD, a love song, an impulse after drinking a couple of margaritas and letting the passion rule over what she will commonly call a mistake.