Unlike everything in this neighborhood, Mel's home looked better than when I'd first saw it when I was thirteen. The unit was tidy, with no signs of broken and damaged furniture and ripped up tapestries. A lightbulb hanging on the centermost ceiling cast hazy golden glows on the walls. Underneath it was the dinner table, surrounded by Mel's father and three of his older siblings.
We went inside, and at the corner of the room, I caught notice of an altar that had a portrait of Mel's mother. Candles lined on the edges of the altar, and flowers were strung at the picture frame's border. There was a window beside the altar that had let in the gentle evening breeze, rustling the petals of the flowers and making the candle flames waver. The woman on the portrait smiled solemnly, with a sadness in her eyes so profound my heart tightened.
The four of us got past the antechamber, and Mel made known of our arrival.
"Dad, we're here."
