Affairs at the Jupiter hotel

Those last months. No way of wrapping it pretty or pretending otherwise: Rafa estaba jodido. By then it was only me and Mami taking care of him and we didn’t know what the fuck to do, what the fuck to say. So we just said nothing. My mom . . .Read the whole article at The Newyorker

We must cast our bread Upon the waters, as the Ancient preacher said, Trusting that it may Amply be restored to us After many a day. That old metaphor, Drawn from rice farming on the River’s flooded shore, Helps us to believe That it’s no great . . .Read the whole article at The Newyorker