family, food, happy
I wept for Armando Palomo at his viewing lunch. I don't know what set me off. Maybe it was the weight of my steady indifference over the years, or the thought that had things been reversed and it been my viewing, he'd have been too busy consoling my family, stirring the mood to a warm reverence, to reckon with the reasons for our losing touch. But whatever hard truth the crying had flushed out of me was soon lost to my embarrassment at the thought that others at the table had taken my tears to mean that Armando and I shared a love for these tamales-his mother's tamales-and now the taste had triggered some tender memory. I blew my nose into a napkin.
Inscape: Vol. 38:
1, Article 11.
Available at: https://scholarsarchive.byu.edu/inscape/vol38/iss1/11