At My Husband’s Funeral, My Son Whispered Six Words

out into traffic. The radio was playing a cumbia, low. He had the decency to turn it off without me asking.

I looked at my phone. The notification was still there, a small green dot in the corner of the screen. The app was working.

I had bought the recorder six weeks earlier, at a stall in Tepito. A man with a gold tooth had explained it to me in three continue reading …