“Por eso es que no los busco” A nuyorican 🗽sad story.

7/16/82, 08:01 am, the bronx, 76°, drizzle☁🌧️

Drugged out junkie son walking up 161st towards Morris ave with his elderly mother. Lost. A grim gray dark bronx morning. The poison has ravaged the family. The young son paces ahead of her. Scared, anxious , angry, desperate. The old mom is in despair, an old dame, thinning white hair, wooden cane, a grandmother out of breath, ashamed, addicted to the same drug that is killing her son.

The young man is uttering words he doesn’t understand. In a demonic trance, his eyes black as coal, he has not slept in days. The poison has ravaged his intestines. Toxic battery acid like spit came out of his mouth every other mumbled word. His skin, a dark delicate caramel descended from the tainos, emaciated, gaunt, skeletal, undernourished Puerto rican in his 20s fighting for his life.

“POR ESO EH QUE NO LOS’ BUSCO” (thick puertorican accent as if born on the island but brought to the city at an early age) he hurled unrecognizable sounds at her flailing his arms in the air as if being summoned by a dark shadow, walking back and forth. The mom in a daze, as if she didn’t hear him, as if she couldn’t see him, she was lost, dejected in despair, dread. The poison has ravaged her hope.

The young man crosses Courtlandt ave. The light turns green. She follows him not realizing cars are coming.