Guayaberas

In my closet, they hung like spirits.  

Six of them.  

I remember the black one and the blue one, because those he wore most.  

I remember the brown one because it matched his favorite tapa, and the beige one, because I have a photo of us after church, leaning in on the hood of a green ranfla, and he’s wearing it.

In that foto, I’m holding a Superman monito, and the jonque behind us is gnarled metal, a jungle of dead shit.  

And the white one, I recall, only because it’s the one my Tia Reynita gave to me when he died, and my moms (and me, virtue of my blood) wasn’t invited to his burial.