Luisito stared ahead for some time. He swallowed once, something Cesar hadn’t ever noticed, except around the dining table.
The boy spoke slowly.
“My father is in the next life. Strangers came and put an end to his body. But his soul is somewhere, not under the ground, but here” — touching his chest — “and there” — pointing to a flower vase, then sweeping his arm around — “and everywhere. My father Julio’s words were not appreciated by the strangers who came. They had their own. When we go to Japan, I hope they will like my words.”
That’s it, Lance announced to himself. He wrote Cesar back.
“He’ll be under your care in a different environment. It will be good for Luisito. Somehow, I feel it frees me from any further obligation to see him, hear his music again. I don’t think he’ll ever
