(k.)

To a job well done—

no matter who they were,
this city chewed them up,
spit them out,
sent them home bien cansados—

but they carried their name
like glass
in a coat pocket.

Careful.
Always careful.

And they are sorry—

for the edge in their accent
when the day ran too long,
for the silence at the dinner table,
for saying ahorita
when they meant
“I don’t know when it will get easier.”

And he deserves peace—

the kind that rises
like steam from arroz blanco
(always present at lunch)
soft against the window,
pushing back the cold
that still feels extraño
after all these years.

And you—
mijito—
you are the only one
who can give that to him.

Not with perfect English.
Not with framed diplomas.

But with your shoulder
pressed into his
on that worn-out couch,
while the radiator knocks
like it’s trying to say something.

So better get to it.

From buses at dawn
to the supermercado that now says your last name
sin problema—
from sidewalks cracked like dry hands
to a sunset trapped between buildings
that almost feel like casa.

Almost.

We gather dignity
like loose change,
like crumpled bills,
like money wired back to abuelita
con fe… y poquito miedo.

Too hungover
to still be charming—

pero up at six.
Porque la renta.
Porque tuition.
Porque allá—
someone is counting
every dollar
like prayer beads.

Let me get my things—

the folder of papeles,
edges worn soft,
the passport we don’t show unless we must,
the photograph of abuela’s maternal home—
tile bright, laughter louder.

And watch that hazy sunset
turn the windows gold
one more time—

almost the same gold
as nuestro país.
Almost.

A father to a son
with grease on his fingers,
pirate dinner in a paper plate grin.

The boy who says,
“It’s okay, Papi. I got it.”
The boy who translates.
Who explains interest rates.
Who answers to two names—
one for the classroom,
one whispered from the kitchen:

mi hijo.

The father hears the easier name
roll off his child’s tongue.

Está bien, he says.
Está bien.

(But something folds quietly inside him.)

There is no miracle
falling from the sky.
No papeles raining down.
No instant belonging.

Only this:

Signing what you barely understand.
Working doble turno.
Nodding like you do.
Staying.

A mother
who never asked about his dreams
because she already packed them
into his lonchera.

She stitched ambition
into Halloween costumes.
Wrapped sacrifice in foil.

She kept the old country alive
in dichos and warnings—
“ponte suéter.”
“no seas necio.”
“acuérdate de dónde vienes.”

To fly away.
To take you home.

Either way—
home is layered now.

An apartment with chipped paint.
Una bandera folded quiet in a drawer.
A language slipping mid-sentence—
half English,
half memory.

To the end
of the beginning—

where forgiveness sounds like
“sé que hiciste lo que pudiste.”

Where the table is too small
for all the history it holds.

Where the light—
aunque sea pequeña—

is always,

always

on.