Echo of a Bird's Cry

THE HERO ANGEL OCTOBER 26

David resides in a modest four bedroom white brick house that sits on ten acres of land. There are two four wheeled ATVs in the garage. He has lived in this house for twenty-six years. This is where Abel was raised. It's warm and cozy inside and I'm surprised that everything is splashed in vivid color. Each wall is painted a different color from amethyst purple to sapphire blue and every color in-between. Little wooden figures are on every counter. Abstract art paintings in every hue hang from the walls. This house has a certain freedom to it. The liberty and joy of self-expression can't be denied or contained.

"Abel carved every single one," David says as I examine a wooden figurine frozen upside down in a mid-cartwheel. "He painted everything by hand too. He's an artist at heart but he chose a profession to help others who are going through pain like him."

"He's talented."

He smiles and it has a somber quality to it.

David asked me to help him pack. I should've told him there's no need. Easton has every amenity under the sun in that elaborate fortress and every fabric you could dream of for clothes. But I guess comfort of sentimental values are priceless. I help David pack some of Abel's clothes. David picks up a worn blue stuffed dolphin from a shelf.

"This is Mr. Tales. Abel's mom left this behind for him. This used to be his best friend until puberty hit." He packs the dolphin into the suitcase. "I couldn't bring myself to throw it away."

"You should keep it if it means something."

He stares at the tattered dolphin for a long while before wiping his watery eyes. "I love my son. I love my boy."

"He'll be okay."

David nods, releasing a harsh breath. "I need a beer. You want one?"

"I don't drink, but I'll sit with you while you drink one."

The kitchen walls are decorated with aluminum foil flowers. The shimmering effect against the black base is stunning. David grabs a cold bottle of beer from the fridge, cracking the lid open against the edge of the scratched countertop. We sit at the rounded kitchen table.

David's eyes meet mine over his beer bottle. "So what's your story?"

"I don't have a story."

His gaze is steady and patient. "That's a lie."

"My story is public domain."

"I'm talking about the things that aren't." David takes a long drag of his beer and places the half empty bottle on the table. "There are a lot of layers to you Angel Chávez Willmore. You're known as the príncipe de México."

I dismiss it without a thought. "A silly name."

"A name that is very true. So tell me how a notorious drug lord's child grows up to be Prince Charming. It's extraordinarily remarkable if you ask me."

I don't say anything.

David waits like the patient father he is, staring at me as only a patient father would.

I hold his gaze and I already feel my resolve weakening. "My mother fled from Mexico while she was three months pregnant with me. She sold all of her valuables so she could buy a brand new identity. She crossed the border and migrated to Los Angeles, California. The City of Angels. Hence my name. She gave birth to me and gave me the best life she could afford. We lived in the projects."

I stare at foil flowers on the kitchen walls, imagining young Abel enjoying creating beautiful art in a home where he was safe and loved. David must've been a great dad, a loving father. An envious bubble rises within me. I instantly feel shameful and want to wash it away. I didn't have this growing up, not at the beginning.