Candles of assorted colors were lit everywhere. There were altars that were puttogether to worship biblical saints. At first, I had no idea who these saints were. Then, Iregretted the fact that I was initially curious about them. Their names and accolades werethrown at me from every direction. It was always depressing to see the picture of Francisof Assisi. It was frameless and pinned up against the far corner of the wall.
The thing was creepy and it always left me with an eerie feeling. He was clad in agrey tunic and a biblical cloak. His eyes looked pleading and sorrowful as they looked upat a sky that was dark and dreary. One of his hands appeared to be misshapen as heclutched his aching heart, while the other hand held on tight to a cross bone and skull.
Then, the words of our pastor echoed in my mind. Francis of Assisi was a mantrapped in a world of darkness, crying out to the Lord to find inner peace. A slow chilltraveled down my spine as I thought to myself. Who could survive in a world of torment?Of darkness? Then, we would all turn to read from Luke, 16. Saint Lazarus. A sharpimage of a poor man in tattered clothing and a drooping spine flashed through my mind. Icould imagine him, limping around the streets on a wooden cane, holding out his hands,begging for money and meager scraps of food. He would plead with his eyes, as strangerswalked by and piteously dropped loose change into his palms. They were always carefulnot to make contact with his skin, out of fear that they would catch his infectious diseaseand contagious misfortune. I looked over and stared at a picture of Saint Peter. His blueeyes sank into me as he teasingly dangled the keys to the kingdom of heaven.
I would glare back at him as I thought to myself. Why don’t you help him? You havethe keys, go on and let them in to heaven so they can stop suffering for goodness sake. Heignored me. In fact, almost all of my prayers were ignored. I was frustrated. Church madeit seem like it was okay to suffer. I didn’t want that, didn’t want to be in pain. I justwanted to have a happy and normal family just like other kids. Was that really too muchto ask? My mom seemed to be giving up too. A lot of Sundays rolled by, and we didn’tsee much improvement in our lives. In fact, things kinda got worse. Bills kept arriving inthe mail, and the phone rang incessantly. My mom never answered the phone, and shenever let my brother and I answer it either. It was just as well, because it wasn’t longbefore the damn thing got cut off.
I wanted to go back to the church and demand that we get our money back. Whatkind of scam were they pulling anyway? My mommy had given them everything, and wegot nothing in return. One day, I came home and saw that my mommy was packing.Instantly, I was concerned.
“Mom, where are we going?”
She looked at me and forced a smile. “We have to leave here, sweetie; we just can’tafford the rent anymore.”
“What?” My mind was moving a hundred miles per hour. I just didn’t get it. Here wewere trying to live our lives straight and everything was falling apart. It seemed thatthings were better for us when my mom was selling her ass for cash. It wasn’t fair. Lifejust wasn’t fair.
“Go ahead and pack a small suitcase, but just bring the things you need, like yourtoothbrush and underwear.”
What? She had to be kidding me. I couldn’t leave behind my bike, my toys, and myclothes. I started to get lightheaded.
“Mommy, I don’t want to go; this is our home.”
“Sweetie, there’s nothing else that I can do. We just can’t stay here anymore.”
We waited another hour for Ali to get home from football practice. When my momtold him the news, he nearly broke down and cried in front of us. He had much more tolose than me. He had friends and a reputation that he had worked hard to build. He knewthat leaving meant that he would have to start all over again.
We left our house and didn’t look back. I don’t think that my mom had enoughmoney for a bus ticket because we walked for most of the day. I asked my mom wherewe were, and she told me that we were still in Newark. The houses were huge withmanicured lawns. People stared at us. I am sure that we were a sight to see. We didn’thave enough suitcases, so we threw the bulk of our stuff in black trash bags. There weretimes when I found myself dragging the bag on the ground, which wasn’t the smartestthing to do. Panties and soiled socks fell through the rips, and one little boy even chasedus down to give us a pair of Ali’s boxer shorts. It was so embarrassing.
I couldn’t bring myself to think about what was going to happen to the rest of ourstuff. I’m sure that it wouldn’t be long before squatters moved into our house and startedplucking away at our things like vultures. I shook my head. I just couldn’t believe that wewere going through this, again. We walked for most of the day, only stopping to drinkwater or eat food.
Finally, we came up to an old duplex. I stood outside and watched my mom walk upto the door. The wind played in my hair.
Brown and green leaves were blowing everywhere. There were gapping puddles inthe lawn, filled from yesterday’s rain. I tried to shift my feet, but the mud had glued themto the ground. The house was kinda big and well kept with a bunch of tiny rocks thatcovered the driveway. My mom banged on the door.
“Alijondro, open the door. I know you’re in there. I got
