Elegy

When I first saw them, I had asked you what kind of tree it was. When you said that it was the mesquite, I thought of barbecue, then bonsai. They looked so old.

I had been to that town several times in my life with out you. Every time, I remember the highway. As a kid it made me nervous and that day it was the same.

In the dark it was worse.

There are so many things to miss because you are buried where the mesquite grows but live in every inch of my home.

We only went there that one time. I met your family. You left me alone to drink with your cousins. Later the next day, we ate tostadas with your mom. I felt like I could walk barefoot through that town.

At the funeral, they all wore yellow for you. From afar, I could see how you had changed. I could see how I changed. They wore yellow.