Each Tiny Spark by Pablo Cartaya

Author:Pablo Cartaya
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Young Readers Group
Published: 2019-08-05T16:00:00+00:00

When I get home, my dad is on the sofa, watching TV. He doesn’t hear me come in. The house is quiet because Abuela isn’t home yet. Usually there’s a pan sizzling in the kitchen or the rumble of the dryer in the laundry closet, or the creak of wood under our feet. I check my phone and see Mom sent me a text a little while ago. We keep missing each other.

I walk over to my dad, but he still doesn’t turn around. I wonder why he wasn’t at the garage earlier. Maybe he didn’t feel well and needed to come home. I want to do something to cheer him up, like bring him flowers.

Papi makes a noise and moves his head from side to side like he’s in an argument with himself. He’s sleeping, but it doesn’t look like he’s resting. I go outside and pick bright pink azaleas from Abuela’s flowerpot on the front porch. I rush over to the sofa and throw my arms around his shoulders, flowers and all.

“Hi, Papi!”

He jumps up, totally startled. His body seems tense and his face looks angry.

“Geez, Emilia! Don’t spring up on me like that!”

His hands are balled up into fists and he’s staring at me all wild-eyed.

I stop and remember what Mom said.

There are a few rules we have when Dad is home.

We never play dead.

We never shout.

We never make sudden noises or drop things on the floor on purpose.

We never, ever, sneak up on Papi.

I step back and wait for my dad to feel calm. I remember what happened the time the “Welcome Home” balloon popped one year. That’s why Mami doesn’t do a big celebration anymore. She was there that day to comfort him. I think about what she did.

She stood in front of him but gave him enough space to move around if he wanted to. She waited a little, then asked in a gentle voice if he needed anything. Next she put her hand in his until he made eye contact.

In this moment, Papi holds a sofa cushion.

“Papi,” I say, slowly approaching. “I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t respond.

“Papi?” I say again, this time reaching the sofa and placing my hand on top of his.

We lock eyes for a minute.

“You okay?” I ask.

He nods. “I’m sorry I scared you, Emilia,” he says. His body deflates a little and his arms sag at his sides.

“I’m sorry I sprung up on you,” I tell him. “I forgot.”

My dad stares at the flowers on the floor.

“These for me?”

I nod.

He picks them up and holds them to his nose.

“You know, I took that papier-mâché flowerpot you made me a few years ago everywhere I went,” he says. “You remember that?”

“Yes,” I say softly. I made it for him in my fourth-grade art class. I cut out tulips, roses, and daisies using colorful construction paper and arranged them in the pot.

“I carried one of the flowers in my rucksack during every daily patrol. They brought me luck on those four-hour treks.”

I hadn’t

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