Go

“Lemuel, te voy a decir una cosa.

My father pauses, guiding his gold Cadillac DeVille up the ramp towards the George Washington Bridge. I shift my legs in the backseat, absorbing the warmth trapped in the car’s beige leather, waiting for him to continue. Through the window I see the amber glow of apartment buildings dissolving into the cool darkness over the Hudson River. We’re leaving Washington Heights, the Dominican neighborhood where my father has his dental lab, and where we used to live. Our apartment was a tiny one, just above where my father worked. It used to be that he’d walk up two flights of stairs to get to our front door. Now he drives over the river to Fort Lee, New Jersey, where he and my mother bought a house.

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Angel Eduardo
The Questioning

Summer was all but a memory against the relentless pull of winter, and an icy scent crept into the air with the arrogant foreboding of a cat playing with a mouse before killing it. Depeche Mode’s “Waiting for the Night” broke the silence of my car as I drove over the dark curves of the Palisades Interstate Parkway. I usually sing along while driving, but that night I wasn’t in the mood to emote. I wanted to be lulled into a peaceful numbness by the soft, vespertine passages of the instrumentation. I wanted the low drone of David Gahan’s voice to drown out the thoughts racing through my mind. I wanted to think of nothing.

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Angel Eduardo