Status Updates From Seven Spanish Angels

...after pushing their Parkinson grandfather or great-uncle up and down the hall then sneaking away one by one, to collect by the truck, they’d laughed like they were dying, just because if they didn’t, they’d all go home and shoot themselves in the face with the first gun they could find.

Another way to say it was that she was the Mexican woman from whom the rest of us had been cut. The Spanish señorita with just one generation of Indio in her. Not enough to wash away her Old World bearing, her confidence, that sense of belonging wherever she happened to be, but just enough to color her brown, let her survive under a different sun.