THE MORNING AFTER I CAME HOME, MY MOM WASHED my

hair. “You have such beautiful hair,” she said.

“I think I’ll grow it long,” I said. Like I had a choice. A trip to a barber shop would have been a nightmare.

She gave me a sponge bath.

I closed my eyes and sat still for her. She shaved me.

When she left the room, I broke down and sobbed. I had never been this sad. I have never been this sad. I have never been this sad.

My heart hurt even more than my legs.

I know my mom heard me. She had the decency to let me cry alone.

I stared out the window most of the day. I practiced pushing myself on the wheelchair through the house. My mom kept rearranging things to make it easier.

We smiled at each other a lot.

“You can watch television,” she said. “Brain rot,” I said. “I have a book.” “Do you like it?”

“Yeah. It’s kind of hard. Not the words. But, you know, what it’s about. I guess Mexicans aren’t the only poor people in the world.”

We looked at each other. We didn’t really smile. But we were smiling at each other on the inside.

My sisters came over for dinner. My nephews and nieces signed my cast. I think I smiled a lot and everyone was talking and laughing and it all seemed so normal. And I was glad for my mom and dad because I think it was me who was making the house sad.

When my sisters left, I asked my dad if we could sit on the front porch. I sat on Fidel. My mother and father sat on their outdoor rocking chairs. We drank coffee.

My mother and father held hands. I wondered what that was like, to hold someone’s hand. I bet you could sometimes find all of the mysteries of the universe in someone’s hand.