He was riding in his aunt’s sedan, a kid in elementary school, watching senior citizens walk in and out of the Lynwood retirement home where his mother worked. Then she emerged in scrubs.
David Fuentes holds on tightly to that simple memory: his mother at work. It’s easier than recalling many other parts of his childhood — “a blur,” as he calls it.
Like the time when he was little and his father, drunk, socked his mother. She remembers the blood gushing from her face and her child standing in the bathroom saying, “Mom, Mom.” [Read more…]