so she tries to make the most of it. There is a book deal. There are meetings with a ghost writer. There is a happy year of cooking together, of showing up to events on each other’s arm. Then it’s over. There is someone who catches Flor’s eye. Another call from far away: “I’m in love. Mami, I’m in love. I’m afraid about what you’re going to say.” There is a bride waiting anxiously for her mother’s face to appear in the pews. There is a modest party with strangers. There are years with no contact. There is a breast lump in the shape of Texas. There are doctor’s visits & second opinions & third & fourth opinions & more bad news. There’s a nest of grey hair in the bathroom drain. There is a hospital bed. There is a dramatic reunion. Hands clenched, foreheads pressed together, sweating. Tears. There is something the both of them always needed to hear. There is a notification on our phones. There are shirts for sale at Urban Outfitters, think pieces, vigils, podcasts, face filters. Flor gets a divorce. It was mutual, a slow fade out, the credits rising up like smoke signals. Flor takes vitamins. Flor ignores the white hairs springing out of her scalp. Flor starts a candle business. Coconut wax with red petals settled spontaneously at the bottom in jars she gathered from street corners & the beach. Flor ships the candles all over the country, sometimes the world, with a line from her mother’s songs. Nobody knows it’s her. She likes that. The candles burn down. The jars get reused for dinner parties or tossed out again, another life over. Flor goes to marches. Flor tweets about assassinating the president. Flor deletes her Twitter. Flor throws her phone into the river. Flor stops gathering jars. Flor sells her bicycle. Flor orders a gin & tonic at the bar because even though she’s sober she doesn’t believe in absolutes. There is a woman across the bar making eyes at her. The woman lifts up her hand like, “Hey.” Flor lifts her hand up like