Sitting in the Jorge Booth at McDonald’s, Junior turns to his father and says, “We share the extraordinary curse of useless hands, hands that could not save Mother and my beloved wife from cancer.”
They remember standing next to death beds watching the stars in their wives' eyes, the stars that held them entwined by love and sorrow, burst into silence.
Without looking up from his paper cup with dos azucares, Jorge replies, “We are not cursed, my son, even though it may seem we have fallen from God’s grace. I will admit, however, that we are being watched over to see how we will bear this cross.”
They unwrap biscuits from yellow paper and spread strawberry jam over them.
Saturday mornings are reserved for this weekly trip to McDonald's, to sit in silence and eat biscuits, to know what the other is thinking before he says it. It's a strange ceremony of remembering and taking comfort in common loss.
Though they have lost much, they still have each other to watch over.
"I will make menudo when we return home," Jorge says as he wipes his lips with a brown paper napkin. "I'll make enough for the weekend."
"It never turns out as good as your mother's, but I've been wanting it for a while now," Jorge adds.
Junior shakes his head. He understands what his father has really been wanting, but knows that his hands are again useless to provide it.
"Do you have tripas," Junior asks.
"No, we'll have to stop at the market," his father responds, as he places his straw hat back on his head.
"Ok, we can pick up other groceries for you while we're there. Do have coffee?"
"Yes, I never let myself run out of coffee. How else could I make it through the night?" Jorge smiles, and Junior follows suit.
Jorge rises and shuffles his feet toward the door as Junior cleans up the table.
As they exit, a flash of something follows them in the door's glass, two momentary starbursts, as Junior opens the truck door for his dad.
Previous Version
Sitting in the Jorge Booth at McDonald’s, Junior turns to his father and says, “We share the extraordinary curse of useless hands, hands that could not save Mother and my beloved wife from cancer.”
They remember standing next to death beds watching the stars in their wives' eyes, the stars that held them entwined by love and sorrow, fade into silence.
Without looking up from his paper cup with dos azucares, Jorge replies, “We are not cursed, my son, even though it may seem we have fallen from God’s grace. I will admit, however, that we are being watched over to see how we will bear this cross.”
They unwrap biscuits from yellow paper and spread strawberry jam over them.
Both have lost their wives within a year of each other. It is unusual for them to speak of it, but something has possessed Junior to address their unconscionable grief.
Saturday mornings are reserved for this weekly trip to McDonald's, to sit in silence and eat biscuits, to know what the other is thinking before he says it. It's a strange ceremony of remembering and taking comfort in common loss.
Though they have lost much, they still have each other to watch over.
"I will make menudo when we return home," Jorge says as he wipes his lips with a brown paper napkin. "I'll make enough for the weekend."
"Sounds good," Junior answers.
"It never turns out as good as your mother's, but I've been wanting it for a while now," Jorge adds.
Junior shakes his head. He understands what his father has really been wanting, but knows that his hands are again useless to provide it.
"Do you have tripas," Junior asks.
"No, we'll have to stop at the market," his father responds, as he places his straw hat back on his head.
"Ok, we can pick up other groceries for you while we're there. Do have coffee?"
"Yes, I never let myself run out of coffee. How else could I make it through the night?" Jorge smiles, and Junior follows suit.
Jorge rises and shuffles his feet toward the door as Junior cleans up the table.
As they exit, a flash of something follows them in the door's glass, two momentary starbursts, as Junior opens the truck door for his dad.
Previous Version
Sitting in the Jorge Booth at McDonald’s, Junior turns to his father and says, “We share the extraordinary curse of useless hands, hands that could not save Mother and my beloved wife from cancer.”
They remember standing next to death beds watching the stars in their wives' eyes, the stars that held them entwined by love and sorrow, fade into silence.
Without looking up from his paper cup with dos azucares, Jorge replies, “We are not cursed, my son, even though it may seem we have fallen from God’s grace. I will admit, however, that we are being watched over to see how we will bear this cross.”
They unwrap biscuits from yellow paper and spread strawberry jam over them.
Both have lost their wives within a year of each other. It is unusual for them to speak of it, but something has possessed Junior to address their unconscionable grief.
Saturday mornings are reserved for this weekly trip to McDonald's, to sit in silence and eat biscuits, to know what the other is thinking before he says it. It's a strange ceremony of remembering and taking comfort in common loss.
Though they have lost much, they still have each other to watch over.
"I will make menudo when we return home," Jorge says as he wipes his lips with a brown paper napkin. "I'll make enough for the weekend."
"Sounds good," Junior answers.
"It never turns out as good as your mother's, but I've been wanting it for a while now," Jorge adds.
Junior shakes his head. He understands what his father has really been wanting, but knows that his hands are again useless to provide it.
"Do you have tripas," Junior asks.
"No, we'll have to stop at the market," his father responds, as he places his straw hat back on his head.
"Ok, we can pick up other groceries for you while we're there. Do have coffee?"
"Yes, I never let myself run out of coffee. How else could I make it through the night?" Jorge smiles, and Junior follows suit.
Jorge rises and shuffles his feet toward the door as Junior cleans up the table.
As they exit, a flash of something follows them in the door's glass, two momentary starbursts, as Junior opens the truck door for his dad.
Previous Version
Junior holds the door of McDonald's open as his father, Jorge, shuffles into the restaurant. Jorge's feet find their way to the Jorge Booth, as it's come to be called. He removes his neat straw cowboy hat and runs his leathery hand over the sparse hair on his head.
"I'll get the coffee," Junior says.
"Dos azucares," Jorge reminds his son.
"Si, as always," Junior replies.
He returns with a brown plastic tray that holds biscuits wrapped in yellow paper, plastic packets of strawberry jam, one black coffee and one "dos azucares."
They sit across from each other and spread the red jam on their biscuits.
Both have lost their wives to breast cancer, something they rarely discuss. It would be unconscionable for men of their disposition to expose so much grief.
Saturday mornings are reserved for this weekly trip to McDonald's, to sit in silence and eat biscuits, to know what the other is thinking before he says it. It's a strange ceremony of remembering and taking comfort in common loss.
During an unusual night of drinking too much beer, Junior said they had shared the extraordinary curse of useless hands, hands that could not save their loved ones from death.
"I will make menudo when we return home," Jorge says as he wipes his lips with a brown paper napkin. "I'll make enough for the weekend."
"Sounds good," Junior answers.
"It never turns out as good as your mother's, but I've been wanting it for a while now," Jorge adds.
Junior shakes his head. He understands what his father has really been wanting, but knows that his hands are again useless to provide it.
"Do you have tripas," Junior asks.
"No, we'll have to stop at the market," his father responds, as he places his straw hat back on his head.
"Ok, we can pick up other groceries for you while we're there. Do have coffee?"
"Yes, I never let myself run out of coffee. How else could I make it through the night?" Jorge smiles, and Junior follows suit.
Jorge rises and shuffles his feet toward the door as Junior cleans up the table.
As they exit, a flash of something follows them in the door's glass, two momentary starbursts, as Junior opens the truck door for his dad.
They remember standing next to death beds watching the stars in their wives' eyes, the stars that held them entwined by love and sorrow, burst into silence.
Without looking up from his paper cup with dos azucares, Jorge replies, “We are not cursed, my son, even though it may seem we have fallen from God’s grace. I will admit, however, that we are being watched over to see how we will bear this cross.”
They unwrap biscuits from yellow paper and spread strawberry jam over them.
Saturday mornings are reserved for this weekly trip to McDonald's, to sit in silence and eat biscuits, to know what the other is thinking before he says it. It's a strange ceremony of remembering and taking comfort in common loss.
Though they have lost much, they still have each other to watch over.
"I will make menudo when we return home," Jorge says as he wipes his lips with a brown paper napkin. "I'll make enough for the weekend."
"It never turns out as good as your mother's, but I've been wanting it for a while now," Jorge adds.
Junior shakes his head. He understands what his father has really been wanting, but knows that his hands are again useless to provide it.
"Do you have tripas," Junior asks.
"No, we'll have to stop at the market," his father responds, as he places his straw hat back on his head.
"Ok, we can pick up other groceries for you while we're there. Do have coffee?"
"Yes, I never let myself run out of coffee. How else could I make it through the night?" Jorge smiles, and Junior follows suit.
Jorge rises and shuffles his feet toward the door as Junior cleans up the table.
As they exit, a flash of something follows them in the door's glass, two momentary starbursts, as Junior opens the truck door for his dad.
Previous Version
Sitting in the Jorge Booth at McDonald’s, Junior turns to his father and says, “We share the extraordinary curse of useless hands, hands that could not save Mother and my beloved wife from cancer.”
They remember standing next to death beds watching the stars in their wives' eyes, the stars that held them entwined by love and sorrow, fade into silence.
Without looking up from his paper cup with dos azucares, Jorge replies, “We are not cursed, my son, even though it may seem we have fallen from God’s grace. I will admit, however, that we are being watched over to see how we will bear this cross.”
They unwrap biscuits from yellow paper and spread strawberry jam over them.
Both have lost their wives within a year of each other. It is unusual for them to speak of it, but something has possessed Junior to address their unconscionable grief.
Saturday mornings are reserved for this weekly trip to McDonald's, to sit in silence and eat biscuits, to know what the other is thinking before he says it. It's a strange ceremony of remembering and taking comfort in common loss.
Though they have lost much, they still have each other to watch over.
"I will make menudo when we return home," Jorge says as he wipes his lips with a brown paper napkin. "I'll make enough for the weekend."
"Sounds good," Junior answers.
"It never turns out as good as your mother's, but I've been wanting it for a while now," Jorge adds.
Junior shakes his head. He understands what his father has really been wanting, but knows that his hands are again useless to provide it.
"Do you have tripas," Junior asks.
"No, we'll have to stop at the market," his father responds, as he places his straw hat back on his head.
"Ok, we can pick up other groceries for you while we're there. Do have coffee?"
"Yes, I never let myself run out of coffee. How else could I make it through the night?" Jorge smiles, and Junior follows suit.
Jorge rises and shuffles his feet toward the door as Junior cleans up the table.
As they exit, a flash of something follows them in the door's glass, two momentary starbursts, as Junior opens the truck door for his dad.
Previous Version
Sitting in the Jorge Booth at McDonald’s, Junior turns to his father and says, “We share the extraordinary curse of useless hands, hands that could not save Mother and my beloved wife from cancer.”
They remember standing next to death beds watching the stars in their wives' eyes, the stars that held them entwined by love and sorrow, fade into silence.
Without looking up from his paper cup with dos azucares, Jorge replies, “We are not cursed, my son, even though it may seem we have fallen from God’s grace. I will admit, however, that we are being watched over to see how we will bear this cross.”
They unwrap biscuits from yellow paper and spread strawberry jam over them.
Both have lost their wives within a year of each other. It is unusual for them to speak of it, but something has possessed Junior to address their unconscionable grief.
Saturday mornings are reserved for this weekly trip to McDonald's, to sit in silence and eat biscuits, to know what the other is thinking before he says it. It's a strange ceremony of remembering and taking comfort in common loss.
Though they have lost much, they still have each other to watch over.
"I will make menudo when we return home," Jorge says as he wipes his lips with a brown paper napkin. "I'll make enough for the weekend."
"Sounds good," Junior answers.
"It never turns out as good as your mother's, but I've been wanting it for a while now," Jorge adds.
Junior shakes his head. He understands what his father has really been wanting, but knows that his hands are again useless to provide it.
"Do you have tripas," Junior asks.
"No, we'll have to stop at the market," his father responds, as he places his straw hat back on his head.
"Ok, we can pick up other groceries for you while we're there. Do have coffee?"
"Yes, I never let myself run out of coffee. How else could I make it through the night?" Jorge smiles, and Junior follows suit.
Jorge rises and shuffles his feet toward the door as Junior cleans up the table.
As they exit, a flash of something follows them in the door's glass, two momentary starbursts, as Junior opens the truck door for his dad.
Previous Version
Junior holds the door of McDonald's open as his father, Jorge, shuffles into the restaurant. Jorge's feet find their way to the Jorge Booth, as it's come to be called. He removes his neat straw cowboy hat and runs his leathery hand over the sparse hair on his head.
"I'll get the coffee," Junior says.
"Dos azucares," Jorge reminds his son.
"Si, as always," Junior replies.
He returns with a brown plastic tray that holds biscuits wrapped in yellow paper, plastic packets of strawberry jam, one black coffee and one "dos azucares."
They sit across from each other and spread the red jam on their biscuits.
Both have lost their wives to breast cancer, something they rarely discuss. It would be unconscionable for men of their disposition to expose so much grief.
Saturday mornings are reserved for this weekly trip to McDonald's, to sit in silence and eat biscuits, to know what the other is thinking before he says it. It's a strange ceremony of remembering and taking comfort in common loss.
During an unusual night of drinking too much beer, Junior said they had shared the extraordinary curse of useless hands, hands that could not save their loved ones from death.
"I will make menudo when we return home," Jorge says as he wipes his lips with a brown paper napkin. "I'll make enough for the weekend."
"Sounds good," Junior answers.
"It never turns out as good as your mother's, but I've been wanting it for a while now," Jorge adds.
Junior shakes his head. He understands what his father has really been wanting, but knows that his hands are again useless to provide it.
"Do you have tripas," Junior asks.
"No, we'll have to stop at the market," his father responds, as he places his straw hat back on his head.
"Ok, we can pick up other groceries for you while we're there. Do have coffee?"
"Yes, I never let myself run out of coffee. How else could I make it through the night?" Jorge smiles, and Junior follows suit.
Jorge rises and shuffles his feet toward the door as Junior cleans up the table.
As they exit, a flash of something follows them in the door's glass, two momentary starbursts, as Junior opens the truck door for his dad.
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