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“This is María Guadalupe,” Grandma says, picking up a framed picture that was keeping Gramps's picture company in the center of the table. At first, Tyler thinks this might be the girls’ mother. But the photo shows an old woman about Grandma's age standing in a raggedy dress in front of a tumbledown shack that looks like it's made of cardboard. In-credibly, as poor as she is, she's smiling widely, revealing several missing teeth.

“That's our grandmother,” Ofie explains. “She's dead.”

“Abuelita,” Luby says, but when Tyler looks over at her, she hides behind her oldest sister.

“We brought candles and lids to set them on, Grandma,” Ofie says, pulling out tiny candles as well as a bunch of jar lids from a paper bag.

Tyler is surprised that the girls call his grandmother Grandma as if she is their family. Actually, he is the one feeling like the stranger in this company. But then, he has been avoiding them for weeks, though he has been spying on the family every night. If Homeland Security has also been on the watch, they must be awful bored with how little there is to report. TV sounds, some nights someone plays a guitar and everyone sings, other nights a girl goes out in the back field and stands there for a while looking up at the stars.

“I brought my telescope,” he offers, feeling empty-handed, wanting to contribute something. “After dinner, we're all going to watch some stars.” He says this to all of them, but of course, he means it for Mari. Finally, summoning all the courage he's been saving up for when the planet gets in trouble, Tyler looks over at Mari, and this time he is rewarded. She returns the smile he gave her in the classroom a week ago.

Dinner is delicious—all of Gramps's favorite things, as well as Coca- Colas because Coke was one of the special treats that Mari remembers her grandmother, who died right before Christmas last year, really liked. Abuelita was too poor to buy Cokes except on her saint's day, Mari says her mother told her. Her grandmother also really liked mole, a sauce made with chocolate, so the girls have brought some Her-shey bars Tyler's mom gave them for Halloween. They've piled them on a little dish by Abuelita's picture.

After dinner, they all put on their coats and go out to the garden. Tyler leads the way, guiding the group with a flashlight. Grandma tells the girls how much her husband loved his garden, how he had a green thumb, and when the girls gasp, Grandma laughs and explains how this expression means someone is a natural- born gardener.

They stand in the chilly air while Tyler points out the stars visible to the naked eye: Ursa Major and Ursa Minor, the two bears; Draco, the dragon; Cassiopeia, which looks like a
W
or an
M
on it side; Pegasus, the flying horse. Then they all take turns looking through the telescope.

“I don't see anything!” Luby keeps saying until they discover that she is closing her eyes instead of peering through the eyehole. “I see lots and lots of stars!” she exclaims at last. “I see a beautiful lady!”

“You do?” There is a thrill in Mari's voice Tyler has never heard before.

“Let me see! Let me see!” Ofie nudges her little sister over. But after a minute of looking, Ofie gives up. “You're lying!” she accuses her little sister. “That's not funny.”

“I am not,” little Luby says, sniffling. “I saw her. I really did. She was winking at me!”

“Liar—” Ofie begins.

“Shhhh! Listen!” Mari whispers. From the trailer comes the sound of someone playing the guitar and singing, the saddest tune Tyler has ever heard. It makes him feel home-sick even though he is already home.

“It's
‘La Golondrina,’
“ Mari explains. “That song I told you about,” she reminds Tyler. “You sing it when you are far away from your homeland and the people you love.” And then she begins to sing and her sisters join in. Tyler doesn't understand all the Spanish words, something about a swal-low looking for something. But for once, not knowing the words doesn't matter. Just listening to the lonesome tune captures Tyler's feelings when he is missing Gramps or Ben.

So this is what the three Marías feel, so far from home! And to think that Tyler has made them feel even more lone-some with his unfriendliness and spying. He wishes he had words that would let them know he is sorry, that they do belong here. Thankfully, his grandmother speaks up. “I know it's not your homeland, but you're here with people who love you.”

This is far too sappy for Tyler to ever say himself. Like Gramps, he finds it easier to talk through the stars. And what a night for stellar conversation! Up above, a star shoots across the sky, then another, and another. “Look!” Tyler shouts, pointing up. A meteor shower. Mari sees it right away, but the two little sisters have to be aimed in the right direction.

“I see it! I see it!” little Luby screams with delight.

“Me too!” Ofie adds.

They stand for a while in the clear, cold night, watching the absent ones rain down their welcome light.

14 noviembre 2005

Querida Abuelita,

The letter I started for you in Señora Ramírez's class I had to hand in, so I am writing you another one that can be as private as I want.

First of all, thank you, Abuelita, with all my heart for sending down so many kisses of light on Day of the Dead night!

Some nights when Tío Felipe plays his guitar, Wilmita, and sings such beautiful songs that make my heart soar, I have felt you close. But after the shower of light I am certain you will never abandon us even though we have wandered far to a strange land like the swallow in the song.

Tyler, the
patrón's
son who is now our friend again, says that what we saw was the Taurid meteor shower, which comes in early November. I don't know if this is true. But every clear night, I continue to go out, and though the shooting stars have diminished, you always send down one or two to let me know you are still watching over us.

We have taken down the altar we made for you in the trailer, pouring your Coca- Cola on the ground. (Luby and Ofie ate your chocolate bars. “You always tell us not to waste,” they defended themselves.) When I am done with this letter, I will put it behind your picture inside its frame.

Someday I hope to bury it at your graveside the way Señora Ramírez said her family in México used to do with their letters.

We took your picture to the supper in your honor at our American grandmother's house. She lost her husband, Gramps, only five months ago, so the supper was also in his honor. At the table and later in the garden, the grandmother told us so many stories about him that I felt as if I knew him. “He would have been tickled by you girls!” she repeated several times.

I did not want to correct her, but we would never disrespect an old person by tickling them! Often when I do correct something she says, she laughs and explains what she means. Then say what you mean, I feel like telling her. But I do not want to upset her as she is so nice and has made us feel that we do have family in this country. Grandma, she has asked us to call her, which is
abuela
in English.

So now we have three grandmothers, but only you are in heaven to watch over us. Abuelita, please ask God to keep it that way. Papá's mother, Abuelota, has not been well, which worries him and my
tíos
and me. Her blood pressure is up and the doctors have prescribed medicine that costs a lot of money. My uncles and Papá are now each sending sixty dollars a week, but even that does not cover the added expense.

I sincerely hope her health improves … because if anything should happen, my
tíos
and Papá will all want to travel back as Mamá did to be with you during your last days. This time, Papá would have to take us back with him, and, Abuelita, I don't think my two sisters could get used to life in Las Margaritas. They are like American girls, preferring to speak in English and not thinking about the cost of things, as if we were rich people like the Paquettes.

Morning, noon, and night, they will drink Coca- Colas and think nothing of leaving some in the glass! “I'm full,” they say if I tell them not to waste. I put the leftover in the refrigerator for later, and when I serve it to them at the next meal, they complain, “It's not bubbly.” I know that now with the help of Papá and the
tíos,
our family has built a concrete house with indoor water and electricity back in Las Margaritas. But that would not be special enough for my sisters. They would want their own television, and so many games and toys that they have to choose which one to play with. They would expect to ride a bus to school instead of having to walk the five kilometers there and back. And if any of their elders were to tell them what to do, my sisters would reply that they don't have to if they don't want to.

Ofie, especially, loves to argue. She is getting
so she won't obey me even though Papá has told her that she must mind me without Mamá around. “You're not my mother!” she answers back, her hands on her hips. Once she makes up her mind, there is no reasoning with her.

Like what happened as we were preparing for this Day of the Dead. Papá had come back from the evening milking, and we were all four setting up the altar to you. Suddenly, Ofie disappeared to the bedroom we sisters share and brought Mamá's picture from when we were in Carolina del Norte that we keep on the dresser. Just like that, she placed it on the altar along with yours. I couldn't believe that Papá said nothing. I snatched it right off. “She's not dead,” I told her. “You can't put her here!”

“I can too put her there!” Ofie shoved me away and placed the picture back on the altar. Usually, I just let her have her way to avoid fighting as I know how tired Papá is when he comes in from milking. But this time, I had to prevent her. It wasn't just about getting my way, Abuelita, it was the fear that if Mamá's picture was on that altar for the dead, she would surely die. Wherever she was right at that moment, trying to find her way back to us, she would have a horrible accident, or get hit by a car, or bitten by a serpent, or die of thirst in the desert.

And so I snatched that picture off the altar,
and before I knew it, Ofie had grabbed one end, and we were yanking it back and forth. Each one was screaming at the other to let go. Finally, Papá swooped in and took the picture away from us both.

“Papá! Give it back, it's mine!” Ofie was partly right. It was her frame she had bought for a dollar at a sale our American grandmother took us to at her church. Very pretty with little seashells all around the border. But the picture itself belonged to all of us. Not only that, it had been my suggestion to use the frame for Mamá's photograph. Ofie had wanted to put a picture of the new American Girl doll from the catalog we found in the
patrones’
trash.

“I am going to keep the picture for now,” Papá explained, raising a hand to his lips to quiet Ofie's protest. “We will sit down like civilized people and decide whether or not it belongs on the altar with your
abuelita.”

I know that this must be the influence of democracy on our father, just like the Paquette family deciding things by discussion and voting. But I found it incredible that Papá would even allow there to be a vote about this life-and-death matter.

We sat around our supper table, actually just the four of us, as Tío Armando and Tío Felipe, being in- laws, would not have a say in this
matter. But very respectfully, they had turned down the television, where a bloody
lucha libre
was going on, just like the fight Ofie and I were having. Papá started off by saying that it had now been a year.

“No it hasn't!” I protested. “It's only been ten months, two weeks, and two days.”

Papá winced as if it pained him that I knew the exact count. “It has not been a year, but it has been a long time.” He went on to explain that the crossing was very dangerous. That the desert had many dangers.

“Did something happen to Mamá?” I gasped. Maybe this was Papá's gentle way of delivering horrible news.

“No, I'm not saying that.” He stroked my hair for comfort. But I felt none as he went on. “I am only suggesting that after this much time”—he pulled Luby over to his side as if to protect his baby girl from what he was about to say—”after so many months, your mother is probably watching us from the other side of life.”

Ofie narrowed her eyes at me as if to say, See, I was right! How could she be so coldhearted? Actually, I don't think she or Luby really understood that Mamá being on the other side of life meant she had died. “So we can put her picture on the altar, right, Papá?”