She moved the basket of jalapeños from her lap, leaned forward in the rocker and reached out for the rifle that she'd kept close by since Juan died.
She stroked the veined walnut stock. It had been kept underneath the bed along with things that they did not often use. An extra quilt, a tablecloth her sister embroidered, a pair of
black doeskin shoes her Uncle Jesús
had made for her wedding, a white
mantila, a few toys that had
survived a succession of children. Then Juan was dead. And Javier was dead. Then Carlos.
She set the rifle against the wall behind her and rocked as her eyes closed into sleep.
