IN THE CLOSET
Mom barged into my room and started sweeping and commanding me to pick up this T-shirt, that shoe.
“And that!” she yelled, pointing inside my closet.
“Chinga-what? ¿Qué es . . . ?”
“Throw it away, you pig!”
I looked inside the closet, and I was afraid of what I might see, but I didn’t see anything that looked like it might be called a chingadera.
She hit me on my leg with the broom. “¡Cochino!” It stung. “¡Tíralo!”
I got on my knees to find the chingadera.
I didn’t know what I was looking for, but I somehow knew I would spend the rest of my life hiding it from others.