Black curtains covered the windows. Candles burned around the room like someone had carefully arranged a tragedy. The air smelled of wax, dead flowers, and something I could not yet name.
My mother, Teresa Armenta, stood by the fireplace in a perfect black dress, her hair pinned neatly, her lips painted a red too bright for mourning. She was not crying. She was not even pretending to.
“Where is Camila?” I asked, even though the coffin had already answered.
Teresa tilted her head toward it.
“There, son. Be strong.”
The lilies slipped from my hand and fell across the floor. Anatomy
Voir la suite sur la page suivante:
