The Unburied Ghost

Delia

I called her Nana today.

She stopped eating like I had put something rotten on the table.

“I am not a nana,” she told me. “Nanas rock babies and knit blankets. I am la jefa.”

Mother looked down at her plate. I wanted her to say something. Anything.

She didn’t.

So I said yes, ma’am, because I’m old enough to know the difference between correction and survival.

I am ten years old.

That’s old enough for both of those things.