by Dan Elijah Vazquez

‘Bodega Burglar’ (Mine)

I pop into this little corner store, so small the counter greets me as soon as I step through the door. A tall, salt and peppered figure just like yourself zooms by me and rushes out into the street. There’s a note taped to the glass saying ‘No Candy.’ For some reason, I infer that you’ve stolen it. (In your latter days, you developed a fascination with bending the rules.)

A man, presumably the store’s owner, is talking behind the counter with two of his younger female employees. They seem to be criticizing you—a crazy old man, a petty thief. 

I’m offended. I interject. 

“That man is 70 years old. He was diagnosed with cancer in 2004. He survived it for 19 years. Matter of fact, he’s dead now. But you saw him. Right?”

Somehow, what I said is received without much surprise as the owner pulls out a magazine. A catalog of the dead. He asks me for your name and we find you listed. Next thing you know, I’m alone with you in a nameless place. You’re seated at a student’s desk. And I bend down awkwardly to hug you, crying as I squeeze you. Howling, like a wolf does for the moon, because you’re so close but still impossibly far away and I know the hug won’t last forever.

You pat my arm and ask “What’s all this about?” like I’m overreacting.

My eyes are open. I’m in the basement where you had the heart attack. It’s where I’ve been sleeping for months. I thought I was doing well. And I am doing well. But something’s not quite right within me. I reach for my phone and cancel tomorrow’s date with my Hinge match in New York. It’s going to snow. I don’t feel like dealing with that. 

I don’t feel like dealing with anything.

‘Carbon Copy’ (Mine)

You’re talking to someone, or several. And you’re speaking about my brother. You say, “This one, right here—he came out just like me. My carbon copy.”

I’m upset. Yeah. He looks more like you than I do. He’s got your dark hair. And I’m blonde-ish, like my mom. But I’ve got your personality, I insist. The girl at the gym counter where you scan your membership tag to enter says so. 

You bob your head a bit, as if to say “Eh, not quite.” 

I spent a whole adolescence trying to separate my identity from yours. And now I’ve woken up before my 5:45 a.m. alarm, and I feel like crying because the version of you that lives in my subconscious mind doesn’t recognize the similarity between us. What am I supposed to make of that? 

I respect you?

I want to be just like you? 

I love you? 

I’m sorry?

‘Coming Home’ (Mine)

I slip through the door of the old apartment. You’re on your feet for some reason as you watch television. I surprise you with a hug. As you hold me, I feel you shake, on the verge of crying, from the relief of knowing I’m okay. 

That’s when I wake up. You never let me see you cry. And I guess you won’t start now, not even in my dreams.

 I remember one time I wrote you a birthday card that had you choked up. I was maybe 11 or 12 years old. You suddenly folded the card, pushed your seat back, ran to the bathroom, and shut the door. But it wasn’t sound-proof. 

I could still hear you, muffling the sounds of your vulnerability.

Can’t Keep Up Anymore (His)

We’re in the parking lot for Saint James, and we’re juggling, something you taught me how to do. But we’re juggling together, throwing the balls back and forth between us. 

Suddenly some other guy appears—a professional juggler, it seems. He gets in on the act and suddenly the tosses are more sophisticated, faster, and there’s more balls, and you can’t keep up anymore. The balls fly over your head. You scramble to get them. Me and the pro drift away. 

When you turn to us after retrieving the dropped balls, we’re already across the street in the Seabra’s parking lot, doing a variety of increasingly difficult tricks. 

It isn’t hard to interpret. 

The student has surpassed the master.

Get Ready (His)

You and Mom are in the apartment on Chestnut Street where you lived when you first got married, well before Victor or I was born. When your only child was a cat named Ninja, or Calypso.

Mom is coming after you in the kitchen. You’re avoiding her. Going around the table and running into the living room. Eventually you dart into the bathroom. Shut the door and lock it. Mom is jiggling at the handle trying to break in as you’re seated on the toilet. Helpless. Waiting. 

The handle pops. The door opens. You look at your wife (your late wife in reality) and ask “What do you want?”

She doesn’t say a word. She reaches out with both arms and presents to you something black. It seems like some sort of cloth. But you can’t identify it. You’ll just remember: it’s black.

You tell me about this dream and I ask, “Well, what do you think it was?” 

You’re lying down in the bed where you’ll later have your heart attack. And you throw the question back at me—like dream interpretation is a special skill of mine.
“What do YOU think it was?”

I do have an idea. “A suit?”
“That’s what I was thinking,” you say flatly.
I think aloud, “She’s preparing you for your own funeral.” And on that note, we make firm eye contact and I can see that you agree. 

But neither of us realize it’s less than two weeks away.

Dan Elijah Vazquez is a lifelong resident of Newark’s Ironbound district, an active amateur athlete, and a graduate of Rutgers-Newark. Both his mom and dad were educators in the city of Newark.