by Mary Alice
The sun had shone warm on her back as she’d scrubbed the stone clean and constructed the large wooden frame for the flowers—the largest in the cemetery. As she hammered nails and painted, she was consumed with memories of the many festivals her mother had celebrated with her, right here in this cemetery, to honor their deceased relatives. All day she’d heard her mother’s melodious voice in her head. As the sun lowered, the voice in her head grew louder.
Mi niña, look! Listen! We make first a cross for the head of the grave. For our people it is the symbol of the four elements of nature, eh? This is our way. First we put corn on the altar, for the earth. Sniff it, querida. You know that smell, eh? Maize is the aroma of our harvest. It will feed the souls when they return.
Water is next. We place a container here to quench the thirst of the soul after its long journey. Now we put the paper. See how thin it is? This is so it can move with the wind to honor it. And last is fire. Each soul we welcome is represented by a candle. And one more for the forgotten soul, eh? Tonight we will light the candles so that our beloved ancestors can find their way home.
The forgotten soul. That would be her, Mariposa thought morosely. When she died, would Luz light a candle for her?
Mariposa could hear the music in the square and the increasing volume of voices, so festive. The sounds of their laughter spurred her on to a feverish pace. In her rush, she scratched a nasty streak down her arm, ripping her shirt and drawing blood. It’s no matter, she thought to herself. It’s a blood sacrifice. Her ancestors would approve. She ignored the cut and kept working. She had to finish in time before nightfall. The family would be here soon.
The family . . . they were kind to her. She was grateful. They meant well. But she knew what they were thinking. Especially Estella. There was no face for a woman who abandoned her child. No soul. When Estella looked at her, Mariposa saw the scorn. In Estella’s eyes, Mariposa did the worst thing that a woman could do. Unthinkable for a mother like Estella. Unforgivable.
When the sun began to lower and the sky darkened, Mariposa at last stood back and surveyed her altar. Her chest heaved from exertion and her hands were cut and coated with mud. It was beautiful, she thought, satisfied. She’d created a large square-shaped tower divided into six open spaces representing a star—the symbol of the universe. On top of this was a large cross. Every inch of the extravagant wood construction was covered with orange marigolds and hand-painted paper monarchs. Ears of red corn and gold trinkets hung down in the open spaces of the star like ornaments on a Christmas tree.
Her family would be proud. If she could reconcile herself with them, if she found forgiveness in their eyes, then perhaps she would feel a modicum of forgiveness from her mother. In her heart, she desperately clung to the belief that if she succeeded, her mother would come.
There was only one thing left to do. Mariposa wearily bent to grab hold of a bunch of marigolds. The blood rushed to her head and she teetered, dizzy. She’d not eaten and she was tired. Straightening, she took the stems in her left hand and with her right she tore the petals off and let them fall from her fingers to cover the earth.
“Forgive me, Mother,” she whispered as she sprinkled countless marigold petals over the grave.
Each time she ripped the petals from the flower, she released its pungent smell. The twilight air was filled with its perfume. Handful after handful, Mariposa lay the petals down, enough to cover the grave in a golden blanket. Each effort was a prayer. With each tug of the petals, she hit her chest in a ritual for atonement.
“Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa,” she prayed, pounding her chest in deep sorrow.
Luz stood frozen a few feet from the grave. Yadira came to her side and clutched her arm, anxiously watching the woman at the grave.
Mariposa was swaying back and forth, ripping petals from the marigolds and casting them with an erratic thrust to the grave already covered with the golden petals. She was keeling, singing some words in a trancelike state.
Luz motioned to Yadira for her to remain where she was. Luz walked up carefully to Mariposa and gently touched her arm.
“Mariposa?”
Mariposa startled and swung her head around to face her. Her eyes were wide and rimmed red from tears. She stared back at Luz, wild-eyed. There were streaks of dirt across her cheek, her long hair was disheveled, and her sleeve had splotches of blood.
“It’s me. Luz.”
Mariposa blinked several times, focusing. Then she took a long, shuddering breath. She nodded her head in recognition; then, in a sudden movement, she lurched forward to wrap her arms around Luz.
Luz staggered back. She didn’t know what to do or say. She stood stiffly, her arms at her sides, unwilling to return the sudden embrace. When her mother didn’t release her, she reached up to gently pat her mother’s shoulder, and then gradually disentangled herself from her grasp.
Mariposa stepped back and wiped the dirt and tears from her face. As she lowered her hands, her beautiful dark eyes looked out at Luz. Then her gaze slid over to see Yadira. She sniffed and ran both hands through her hair, pushing it back from her face as she took another long breath.
“I’m sorry,” Mariposa said with a soft laugh of embarrassment. “This death stuff can get pretty emotional.”
Luz felt her shoulders lower with a sigh of relief. She’d been spooked by the pendulum’s swing in her mother’s emotions. But it was normal, right? Her mother had died and she was filled with grief.
“We brought you something to eat,” Yadira told her in Spanish. She stepped forward to tentatively hand Mariposa the greasy brown bag filled with food.
Mariposa looked at it with distaste. But she took it and smiled. “Thanks.”
“You should come home with us,” Luz told her in a coaxing voice. “You look exhausted and we all need to clean up for the festival tonight.”
“Right. Right.” Mariposa nodded her head. She looked back at the gravesite for a final look. “But wait! Luz, you didn’t say anything about my ofrenda. What do you think?”
Luz was aware that her mother hung on her every word. She made a show of stepping back, putting her hands on her hips and taking her time to peruse the altar. It was without question the largest and most impressive in the cemetery and overflowed with copious flowers and decorations. It was a beautiful spectacle. But . . . she couldn’t help but think that Abuela might have preferred something more like herself. Something lush, small, and simple.
“It’s amazing,” she told Mariposa. “It certainly makes a statement.”
Mariposa grinned wide and heaved with relief. “It does, doesn’t it?”
“Oh, wait. I’ve got something for it.” Luz opened her bag and retrieved the funny skeleton that she’d purchased. Abuela used to love silly toys and Luz knew she’d get a kick out of this one. She walked up to the grave and laid the skeleton down near the gravestone.
“Luz, no,” Mariposa said, coming up behind her. “That’s a plastic toy. I only want natural things on the grave.” She bent to pick up the toy and handed it to Luz. “You can put this on the ofrenda at the house.”
Luz stuffed the plastic skeleton back into the bag. Her hands rolled up the paper, squeezing it tight.
Twenty-Four
High in the oyamel forests, when the sun goes down the butterflies rush to the trees to secure a safe place to roost for the cold night. The microclimate created by the thick forest protects them against drops in temperature. Loss of the surrounding buffer zone allows penetration into the core sanctuaries by wind, rain, and snow. This can be deadly to the monarchs.
The sky was black and a cold wind whistled through the trees. Inside their room, Mariposa and Luz dressed for the Day of the Dead celebration. Estella had lent them traditional shawls so they would blend in with the local people at this important festival. They’d eaten a simple meal and showered, and now felt refreshed. Mariposa was calm and seemingly back to her normal self, but Luz still sensed she was in a state of hyperawareness. Mari
posa’s eyes glittered as bright as the stars.
Before they’d left on this trip, Sam had taken Luz aside and asked her to keep an eye on Mariposa.
“She’s still fragile,” he told her. “So much is happening all at once. She is not really ready for this trip.”
On this eve of the Day of the Dead celebration, Luz would present her ofrenda to the family. She knew the offerings she’d made for the box of ashes might be seen as childish, but Yadira had explained to her how, when the family gathered together for the gravesite vigil, they each took turns sharing stories. Luz’s intention was to tell the story of her journey to Angangueo. She’d practiced telling a story about each of the seemingly silly offerings and explaining how they represented important milestones of Abuela’s journey home. She felt a glow of satisfaction as she imagined their faces while they listened, sometimes smiling at her humor, like when she told of the car breaking down, sometimes solemn, as when she related how she’d met her mother at Tía Maria’s house in San Antonio. She also planned how, when she was finished, she would offer to them—her newfound family—the gift of the cardboard box holding Abuela’s ashes.
Luz wanted to do it properly, with a quiet respect for tradition and decorum. She dressed in jeans and a plain black sweater and went to stand before the mirror hanging over the bureau. She carefully wound her long hair into the traditional, single braid of the women of the village. Next, she wrapped several ribbons of bright colors through the braid in a fashion Yadira had taught her. Finally, she wrapped herself in a heavy red-and-purple-striped wool shawl. She looked at her reflection and thought that if Abuela’s spirit came home tonight, it would be pleased.
From out in the streets she heard the sound of guitars playing music in the distance. Voices and laughter signaled that the villagers were starting to gather for the celebration. The festival was beginning! Her heart skipped with excitement as she went to the wardrobe closet. The door was loose on the hinges and she was careful opening it. There was no light switch, so she reached up and let her hand search the top shelf for the box of ashes. She pushed back an extra pillow but the box was not where it had been. Concerned, she stretched up on tiptoe and, batting her hand to reach the back wall, discovered that the box was gone.
Her heart began to beat in panic. Where could it be? She pushed back the few clothes hanging in the wardrobe and scanned the floor. She saw her black dress shoes, her backpack, Mariposa’s boots, and a trash basket. A piece of bright paper, oddly familiar, caught her eye. She pulled the basket out from the closet and brought it into the light. She stared into it with uncomprehending eyes. There were the adornments that she and her friends had made for the ofrenda, tossed into the trash as nothing more than junk. How did they get there? she wondered. She reached in and pulled out one of the baby booties. The tiny bit of pink cotton was soft in her hand. Who would do this?
In an instant, she knew.
Her temper skyrocketed as she turned on her heel and went to the bedroom door. “Mariposa!” she called out.
Mariposa hurried in from the next room. She looked stunningly regal in a long, black skirt with a thick navy and black woven shawl wrapped around her shoulders and neck. She, too, had pulled her hair back into a traditional braid, but she refrained from using the bright ribbons of a young girl.
“Luz, what?” she asked, rushing in. “Is anything wrong?”
“Where are the ashes?” Luz demanded.
Mariposa’s face froze. “What?” she said.
“The ashes! Abuela’s ashes, where are they?”
Outside, the church bells began their somber tolling, calling the villagers to the cemetery. Mariposa clutched her hands together and looked to the window, distracted. When she faced Luz again, she’d regained some composure. “Why, we had to put them in the grave, of course,” she said emphatically. “That’s where—”
“Who did? You?”
“Well, yes.”
“Why didn’t you ask me?” Luz cried. “They were mine!”
Mariposa looked over her shoulder and silently closed the door. “Shhh . . . Luz, don’t shout. You don’t want the family to hear.”
Luz tightened her lips to keep herself from saying she didn’t care who heard. She was too angry and hurt to care.
“It’s all very simple,” Mariposa began. “There’s nothing to be upset about. Manolo prepared the grave for the ashes and I simply put them into the grave for tonight’s festivities. You were sleeping, Luz.”
Luz was furious. Mariposa admitted that she took the ashes and she wasn’t the least bit sorry. “You could’ve woken me up! Those were my ashes to give!”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Luz. They weren’t your ashes. They belong to the family.”
“You tore off all the decorations! You threw them in the trash! How could you do that to me?”
Tía Estella called from downstairs in Spanish. “Come! We’re leaving! The parade has begun. Hurry!”
“We’ll talk about this later,” Mariposa said.
“I want to talk now.”
“Luz, please. We can’t make the family late. Come along,” she said urgently. “We’ll talk about this later.” Mariposa turned to open the door and with a final pleading glance at Luz, she hurried downstairs to join the family.
Luz looked at all the offerings that she and her friends had made for Abuela’s ofrenda lying crumpled in her hands. In her mind she could see the smiling faces of Ofelia, Margaret, and Stacie, all singing out, It’s for Abuela!
“Luz! ¡Vámonos!”
Luz grabbed her purse and stuffed the offerings into it. The music of the parade drew closer and she could hear the laughter and singing in the streets rise to a crescendo. Clenching her jaw and flicking off the light, Luz went down the stairs to join the festivities, her heart as cold as the night air.
A full moon illuminated the misty sky, and in the cemetery below, hundreds of candles, each a meter tall, mirrored its glowing countenance. The hazy smoke of the copal incense hung heavy in the foggy air, tasting of pine and blending with the fragrance of the flowers.
Luz sat alone near Abuela’s headstone, wrapped in her heavy shawl. She keenly felt the sting of Mariposa’s thoughtless betrayal. She seethed in silent anger as she stared out, huddled in the cold, at the flickering flames of the candles. As she breathed in the scents, she prayed to Abuela to come tonight.
The Zamora family clustered close around the family plot and passed hot atole, a sweet drink made with corn flour, to help warm them against the deepening cold of the night. The family slipped into roles with Manolo as the head of the family, Estella in a place of honor beside him, and to his left, Mariposa. The rest of the family, a dozen or more, found a comfortable place to sit around the grave. Everyone made exclamations at how beautiful the ofrenda was, congratulating Mariposa on creating such a magnificent tribute.
Mariposa basked in their approval, thanking them for welcoming her back home.
“You brought our mother home to us,” Manolo said with tears in his eyes. “She came home with the monarchs. Sister, we thank you for this.”
“It wasn’t only me. Luz helped,” Mariposa told him, and she turned to Luz, smiling.
Helped? Luz’s hands squeezed the shawl tight around her. Mariposa came to sit beside her, carrying a glass of steaming atole for her to drink. She smiled at Luz, her eyes luminous in the candlelight.
Luz grabbed her purse and rose without a word. She moved to the opposite side of the grave, taking a place on the ground next to Yadira.
Mariposa, stricken, drew her shawl close around her neck and looked at the ground. Estella’s sharp gaze missed nothing and she tilted her head questioningly when she met Luz’s eye across the grave, but Luz merely looked away to stare at the flickering flame of a candle. Yadira earned her place as a kindred spirit when she draped her heavy shawl around both their shoulders and linked arms with Luz in sisterly camaraderie.
As midnight approached, the church bells began tolling, guiding the soul
s home. The candles flickered in the darkness, lighting their way. Luz looked around her as more candles were lit around the cemetery. Soon it looked like a fiery island in the darkness.
Manolo stood and the murmuring of family voices hushed as heads tilted to listen. In a sonorous voice that went from bass to tenor, Manolo recited what sounded to Luz to be an epic poem or a prayer. The family members closed their eyes as they listened, occasionally joining in to recite a refrain.
Luz leaned toward Yadira and whispered, “What is he saying? I can’t understand any of the words.”
Yadira leaned her head closer. At that moment Luz felt that Yadira was her closest ally. “He is speaking Purépecha,” she explained. “He speaks about death . . . the mystery, the rebirth. It is a very old language. Many of us do not understand it, too. But Tío Manolo, he is an elder of the village and he does. The language, it is kept alive because of people like him in Michoacán. They carry the history of our ancestors in their stories. We do not wish to lose our culture.”
When Tío Manolo finished his recitation, there was a long silence. He sat solemnly beside Estella, who patted his arm consolingly. Then the family began the feast. The men shared a bottle of caña, a potent alcohol made from sugarcane. The women in turn lifted the embroidered linen from the baskets of prepared food and shared the bread and tamales. With great ceremony, Estella offered the first plate of dinner to Esperanza and placed it on her grave.
“May you partake of the vitality of the food we offer you,” she prayed to Esperanza’s soul.
While they ate and drank, the stories began about Abuela. A soft buzz of hushed voices created a hum throughout the cemetery. As she listened, Luz pieced together the early history of her grandmother and her life as a young girl, and later as the wife of her first husband, Luis, and the mother of his children, Manolo, Maria, and Luisa. Their lives, and those of the entire village, were changed forever when the mine closed. Luis joined other men to work in the United States for nine months of the year while Esperanza single-handedly raised their children while working in the family store. It was during that time that she lost her youngest and buried her in this same cemetery. Luis saved enough to bring his family to America but a year later died in a farm accident.