El Flaco.

He hasn't been home for a long time. And if he has, he's been drunk. Either way, the lights haven't been on for months, and the letters by his doorstep only keep on coming. Everyone pretends not to know who sends them, for the sake of the remitter. But it has just as well turned into one of the street's traditions, to check if they're still there each morning. Elena, nosy as she was born, has stolen some of them and sometimes pulls them out of her purse to let people read them. Only sometimes. Today, they're sprawled all over the table and signed in tremulous handwriting.

_____

Ay, mi Flaco,

The house isn't as bright without you around. I've never been much of a writer, you know this. But when you're gone I tend to fall into melancholy. How's your job? I never liked the idea of wresting, you know, but it’s been growing on me. I can see you, belt in hand. Just don’t let them touch your face. I can tell you everything that has happened over here. The girl on the floor below, the one with the sad stare, I'm sure she's up to something. The Gongora boy sometimes come over to talk for a while, a new family has moved close. And your brother, well you know how he is, he's kept me well-informed. Please respond as soon as you can.

With all the love, Mom.

_____

Flaquito mío,

A tragedy happened, so now I'm staying with the young teacher, Sofía. I cn’t write it down, dear. Please come visit, I'll tell you about it. If you can't come, respond as soon as you can.

Love you always, Mom.

_____

Ay Flaco,

What have you done?

Love, Mom

_____

Mi Flaco, mi corazón,

I didn't want to believe the rumors. I still don't. I can't take much more, I can’t hold on forever. I told you that fighting would get you nowhere. I told you that side-jobs will get you killed. You told me it was a job, Flaco. Your brother won’t receive you, but I explained everything to Sofía. I can help you, why don't you ever believe me? You don’t need to be strong, when you can be safe. Please. Come home.

I love you, Mom.

_____

Today, they're disorganized and stained. Today, some tears fell on top of the last lines. It's been three years since the Fire, and only three hours since the old widow that lived two cities away with Sofía, passed away. Elena and the girls are silent, smoking. Cruz is picking out flowers for the funeral, nothing but sweet peas and daisies. By the time Eustaquio arrived, the woman's breathing matched that of the rhythm of her rocking chair. The wind howled and sobbed, as it would for the next week.

Some days later, Claudia Bernal would be buried next to a small chapel. Some neighbors would be there, maybe the Gongora boy and that new family. There'd be no family members of hers. And her tombstone would carry no name, no dates. The young teacher Sofía would cry silently, stay there hours after everyone left.

Some months later, Sofía would receive some money in the mail. It'd have a note, attached to it.

For the troubles and the funeral. Thank you, El Flaco.

Some years later, sweet peas and daisies would adorn the nameless tomb.