Last Photograph of My Parents

San José, Costa Rica Tortillas clap against floured palms, steaming bowls of avena, frijoles black as the rumbling sky, arroz con pollo simmers. Against the kitchen window, small clouds rise. Papá dances to the electric beat of the marimba, his cheek bristly against Mamá’s neck; his thick fingers sift through her wispy hair. I am nowhere to be found, neither in the foreground nor background. Today I sit in this chair, in the corner of my house, covered with a poncho of blue flowers, looking out at asphalt roads overflowing with rain, fogging the glass. Along the road, steam rises like blotchy fingerprints.