51: Puerto Rico

“Bienvenidos   Puerto Rico!” went the note on my desk. Something seemed wrong, but I couldn't put my finger on it. I looked out the window. I’d just moved to this city to supervise the U.S. Census. I knew no one.

“Perdon,” whispered this timid voice through the open door. “Un momento.”

I looked up, flustered. “I’m sorry?”

“Como?” Enricuo replied, smiling.


Months went by. Enricuo’s English got no better; mine got worse. I lost one phoneme first, then the second … soon whole words, whole sentences were gone. I tried to stutter through it, but one morning my tongue fell completely silent.

“Es Ingles,” Enricuo told me. “Borinquen resiste. Lee este.” He set some book on the desk. “Un mes. Espero que mejore.”

“One month!?” I scribbled on the cover.

He shrugged. “O dos.”


Terrified, I went to the doctor. “De donde es usted?” the nurse inquired.

“The U.S.,” I wrote, holding my notebook out to her. The doctor looked me over one or two minutes longer before he spoke: “Por que?” then, seeing my confusion: “Why? Why did you come here, to Puerto Rico?”

“For the longest time, I felt something missing,” I wrote. “There’s this hole in my life, this … void.” I stopped, pencil hovering, wishing I could find some word we both could use.

"Un hueco," he whispered to himself, then he pointed to the door. “You should go home.”


But it’s not so simple. I sit with my pencils splintering the moment they touch my notebook, my thoughts coming unmoored the moment they occur, then drifting off, gone … somehow I keep getting to point B only to discover it's the point of no return. I flip through once more from the beginning; count down to the closing line. There were only twenty-five letters left—how could it just end like this?