Frio Frio's on sidewalks
I was waiting for you to wake up, waiting for you to rise from the lightly glazed burgundy open casket with your broken down slang like, “Ayoo Gigi, what’s going on?” asking us what we up to, seeing how you have me talking or if Borito is still hard headed like he’s always said it followed by small talk, smile and like the remote breeze frolicking across the goosebumps on your cheeks we whisk about our lives. Not nourishing the seldom seconds we had loving the day but hating the fact in Yalvien’s birthday party was the first time in a while seeing and hearing you and the last time I’d ever see you breathing, feeling, being in motion or any commotion for that reason. How do you go from Ben 10 green balloons floating away into the unknown sky and stealing gift bags for candy that would last no longer than the time I take to open it. Taking off the weight as we take off our shoes of chrysalis maturity jumping onto the moon bounce with each leap is a memory flashback of what we used to be when we were kids Frio Frio’s in plastic foam cups in which we pay only $.25 Mechi maybe red, Nelson orange, And I purple plastered tongues and broken teeth marked foam pieces on the street curb when I’m sleep over that one memory it doesn’t matter when, where, and what we’re doing I’d remember the distinct smell of scrambled eggs and burnt toast because Nelson actually cooked for us that day. Scrambling away as we scrambled ahead onto our future not knowing how do we turn out but only acknowledging what channel we were flipping to that day. With every pounce we’d bounce on the moon bounce another movie scene appeared in the screen of our frontal lobe for every laughter was the juice of rejoice for right then and there were living for the moment not thinking about the future. The future of how do you explain to little Bella that her daddy won’t be recounting anymore fairytales tonight Or any other night for that matter. It’s not that he doesn’t want to because every time she’d did ask for him with her echo of innocence like "Y papi?" He’s there every night on the edge of the bed holding for dear life the book of maybe, “Goodnight Moon” or some other bedtime story. As he’s waiting with his iron strong steel tracks pinning for the little pink engine that could to ride on by, letting rust pile up his creaking tracks suffering as he watches her with the toy animals— giraffes with long necks, dolls with blue eyes and yellow curls And a little toy clown. He’s anxious just to touch her to hold her in his arms But faith ushered him otherwise being able to glance at her but she not to glimpse of his yearn for her warmth. Likewise, how every night her mother falls asleep next to her baby and an empty side of the bed While her tears cascade into the Merciful wales of, “come back to me baby” and “I need you” Or how do you tell his mother who the minute my mother and I walked into her single bedroom apartment she knew it was of some relevance of her son. "Se murio Cheo, esta muerto" kept playing in my head more than the word “the” appeared in a 240 page novel about how the young protagonist is shot and executed in his own car a few blocks away from where his daughter Bella and wife Tiffany were probably dozed off in bed waiting for him to disturb their sleep with the ruffling of the sheets he would of made as he would of climb into bed but not knowing he wouldn’t be back. He’s not coming back now or later or ever he’s not back and won’t be facing the fact that he’s not returning to us and so aren’t the unknown hundreds and thousands of young souls that were shot and killed because of the contagiously magnified social warfare we’re battling an our damn city of Boston As I Pass Archdale St., Jamaica Plain, Roslindale, Dorchester and every other street with today’s urbanized graffiti of religious candles and stuffed animals taped to the light poles or left pensively on the concrete Followed by two second frowns of maybe four passengers of an unknown car passing by Another body count added to her Mission Hill curves silky smooth Jamaica Pond black hair Blue Hills defined long legs and a smile as bright as the Castle Islands horizon. Not realizing every birthday she took away from him one less Santa Claus that she sneaks up on Christmas Eve one less tooth fairy she would of felt taking her baby teeth to switch for a capitalistic idea. I heard someone say third times the charm while his mother resuscitate ever charm that flirted his way. Dominican flags on hands, back pockets or over the shoulders rejuvenating the joy of being Latinos the smell of grease and four or five powdered mouths from fried dough frying and tossed tickets For zippers and carousel riding turned into the sound of echoed pops in the sky people dropping like dominoes quicker than "Un porracho" throws down his winning "ficha" and Nelson left with the bullet wound to the chest and a ride to the ER that was the first time. An apartment with broken doors and graffiti walls from hooligans claiming ownership turned into Nelson thrown down a flight of stairs flying right back into the ER that was the second time. Unfortunately the third time being the charm that seduced him right to his deathbed instead of the ER. Each time in the ER was a blessing heard from God giving him another chance at life. I don’t understand why He let this happen to you but what’s done is done. And your voice echoes in every one of our red caved muscles vibrating blood in and out of us. Your laughter and smile replays like a broken record in our vinyl eyes. You won’t be forgotten and you will live on In our kisses we give to “dar la bendicion” and the winks we unostentatiously flaunt to one another in the virile daps and half chest pumps because it’s not manly for a man to hug another man and finally to the waves hellos and unwanted goodbyes Nelson Castillo, thank you, Thank You for the memories. Rest In Peace Nelson Castillo (January 13, 1988 - September 15, 2013)
