Unable to quit to save herself, five mouths to feed, all minors, her husband, undocumented, deported months ago, she still woke up early to catch the bus and wore her maroon hospital uniform, the mask tight on her cheeks, a bottle of disinfectant in her bag and a packed lunch, rosary beads around her neck. She had seen all and heard too, a man saying a sighed goodbye to his fiancée before intubation, a wife leaving a short note for her hubby that he could marry again, an exhausted boy making a faint sound of his cracked lips, for his mom on the phone, a girl on oxygen crying before her eyes slowly closed, her dad speechless. A lowly aide, she cleaned beds and washed skin sores, gloves always doubled, covered from head to toe, a thick face shield worn for double protection, yet she still got the bug like the nurse who patted her back and said good job and the doctor who told her be careful, her last message to her kids before ICU, La Virgen de Guadalupe.
