How do you measure the years you heard them: papi, tio, your older cousin, the one who still calls you by your childhood nickname? The stories they tell at the table in volumes so loud the neighbors complain as if they didn’t have full tables of their own just as loud. The stories are the ones you’ve heard before but you always stop to listen as the laughter rises with the humidity, nostalgia nipping at your neck like mosquitoes.
And you wonder as you always do if you’re remembering it right. You’re a kid again trying to carry too many toys all at once. The memories spilling from your arms even as they’re unfolding.
