“Who was that, dear?" I heard his mother's voice. "It was that dumb “wetback” kid," was his reply.”

“Then I heard the voice of the Lord saying,"Whom shall I send? And who will go for us?" And I said, "Here am I. Send me!" -Isaiah 6:8”

“One day, as My uncle Antonio was heading out to a cantina, I slipped a story I had written into his shirt pocket. It was story about a little boy who would poke his finger with a needle and make it bleed. The boy did it so he would get some attention from his mother. It worked out great for a while. But one day, his mother came into the boy’s room, lifted up his sheets and found the boy’s cold body. The little boy had bled to death. The next morning, I awoke to find a new black and white speckled composition notebook sitting next to my head....”

“Ricky opened his mouth and started to say something but his voice cracked. He closed his mouth. He then reopened it and then closed it again. He took a deep breath and then he stepped back and wiped his face again.”

“My mother said she already knew how I was. She could tell I was like that since I was a baby. She told me a story about when I was a toddler. She said that one day, she heard an alarm clock ringing in her room and when she went inside, she saw me bent over it. When she got closer, she could she me shaking baby powder on it!“What are you doing, Joey?” She asked me.“Baby crying,” was my reply.”

“. I can still see Ricky on that roof... the sunlight shining in his round dark eyes, eyes dark as the onyx stones on my mother’s silver bracelet. His shiny black hair was matted and shoulder-length. I wondered who cut his hair. My grandmother cut mine.”

“For just as I am certain of God and His existence, I am equally certain that one day we will meet... or meet again. And that will be a wonderful day!”