and then there ’ s the Blue Eyes of Sinatra , Chet Baker ’ s trumpet all the music resounding mi Mami sometimes my mother is closer than she actually appears hearing her voice in my head , remembering the way she pronounced my wife ’ s name when asking : “¿ Como estas , Michelle ?” I still recall when she wept not only the happy tears at our wedding but when I was nine years old seeing her at the dinner table as she cried when hearing the news that a Mama she knew had passed away , leaving her children motherless . seeing those lágrimas dripped the fear knowing that one day we would be le niños sin madre without her presence , still , mi Mami appears to me within the lines of mi poesia . Con mi pluma , cuando escribo los versos , although