SoledadAfter Ric died, I went back to school. I didn’t know what else to do. Every day I think about him as if he were still alive and I get a soreness in my throat. It seems sacrilegious in a way to remember Ric in his old polo shirt with the faded blue collar, the raising of his eyebrows and tilt of his head to point out a girl walking across the lawn or sitting at the table next to us. These things seem ordinary and I think I should remember more important times. But I’ve tried and I can’t think of any.
I can’t even cry. At the funeral Marisa and Gemma cried, one on either side of me as if I could hold them both up. Their faces were swollen for a week. All I’ve felt is a sore emptiness in my throat and a constant heaviness like sleep. When I did give in last week, I had to will myself
