And I would discover how much of life is defined by what you want to keep and what you are forced to lose.

Contigo la milpa es rancho y el atole champurrado.

People say things all the time with the best of intentions but it’s so easy not believe the words that come out of your own mouth.

You have to believe that you’re entitled to happiness.

Armando’s not a pork chop, I say. She shrugs. At least a pork chop would feed you.

It was as if, when her father spoke, her mother looked at him and saw a little goldfish, popping open his mouth over and over again but making no sound. And when her mother spoke, her father looked and saw a piranha doing the same thing.

And then again, maybe people and things are the same as emotions: Even when you can’t see them or feel them or be with them, and even when they have died and even before they are born, they still exist somewhere. Far away or close, they’re always somewhere. Maybe nothing in the world is truly lost, I think.

Sometimes I think I would rather just remember it in my head, all those streets and the places I loved. The way it smelled of car exhaust and sweet fruit. The thickness of the heat. The sound of dogs barking in alleyways. That’s the Panama I want to hold on to. Because a place can do many things against you, and if it’s your home or if it was your home at one time, you still love it. That’s how it works.

What kind of place required a man to work all day without being allowed to eat or drink? There had to be rules, didn’t there? This was America, after all.

Physical nearness does not necessarily breed intimacy.