I wake to a silent house, pitch-black outside.
My neck is screaming, probably because I fell asleep with a history of the Hundred Years’ War for a pillow. I’m ravenous, a hunger I haven’t felt in weeks.
There’s a note on the ground, slipped under the door, Papi’s slanting handwriting. The funny little smiley face he adds to all notes.
Hay caldo de res en la refri. Te amo.
I find the beef stew and heat it up. Sitting in the dark, I eat alone. Except I’m not. Papi is with me in every bite.
Before stumbling back to bed, I add onto his note, make my own goofy little face, and leave it on the table.
Gracias, Papi. Te amo también.