Passing 7.2***One week ago…***The front gate clicked open like a small, polite announcement as the first of the Maestro’s relatives arrived in a pleasant trickle: with them were neighbors carrying covered dishes, a pair of cousins in sensible coats, someone from Manila who brought a fruitcake that tried very hard to look traditional. I met them at the door because that is what hosts do; Salve had given me a list in the kitchen and a look that said: distribute, divert, and no talk of legal bullshit anywhere. I kept the Maestro’s will on the back burner with the rest of the winter stew: simmering, necessary, but not to be boiled over tonight.“Welcome,” I said to each face as they came in, saying names like small blessings. I took coats, found places for hands to rest, put someone beside the tray of fried lumpia, and performed the brief choreography of hospitality: move thi
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