The Butterfly’s Daughter (42 page)

“I know. I can see that. I tried to help. I kept asking Tía Estella over and over if I could help prepare food but she kept saying no. Finally she said to me”—she laughed—“and I think I translate this right, ‘You can help me by not asking me how to help!'”

Yadira laughed and rolled her expressive eyes. “
Sí.
This is Tía Estella. She has big voice but,
cómo se dice?
She has big heart, too.”

“It seems to run in the family,” Luz said with another laugh.

Between Yadira's broken English and Luz's broken Spanish, they were able to patch together enough to carry on a conversation. Yadira pointed out the items on the altar and explained to Luz what they meant, giving Luz her first lesson in the traditions of the Day of the Dead. And there were many.

“This year is special because Esperanza, she die. Everybody is very sad and want to make a present to the altar. Today many family they come to bring food or gift so that she feel welcome. My mother, she gave me this to bring.” She lifted a plastic bag and
pulled out an intricately crocheted black shawl. She carefully laid the shawl across the base of the altar. The long fringe was showy against the white cloth.

“It's beautiful.”

“It was made by your
abuela
for my mother on her wedding day. Tío Manolo he want everything to be good for his mother,” Yadira told her. “His heart it is broke, you know? Now come. Mami wants for us to bring tortillas to Mariposa. She is at the cemetery.”

“What's she doing there?”

“She is making the
ofrenda para tu abuela.
”

“Another one?”

Yadira laughed. “
Sí.
We make
ofrenda
for the grave, too. Mariposa,
tu mamá,
she want to do this alone. She go to cemetery this morning very early.”

Luz held her tongue and stared at the photograph of Abuela on the altar. She felt a stab of betrayal that her mother would go to the cemetery to build an altar for Abuela without her. Wouldn't it have been a bonding experience for them to do it together? Luz tried to tamp down her hurt. She didn't want to judge. After all, she got to spend all of her life with Abuela. She was there the day she died. Mariposa had lost so many years. Maybe she just needed some time to be alone. She was Abuela's daughter, after all.

But, she thought as she glanced back at the photograph of Abuela on the altar, didn't she realize that Abuela was a mother to her, as well?

“Come. We go now?” asked Yadira.

Luz buried these resentments as she told herself that everyone dealt with grief in her own way. One thing she'd learned about the Day of the Dead—it was not a mournful day. It was a day to remember the departed with a joyful spirit.

She looked forward to nightfall. Today, November first, was the day the souls of the children returned. The vigil of adults would begin tonight and she was excited to participate in the festivities.

Yadira and Luz walked side by side through the streets of town, already crammed with people in a festive mood buying last-minute food, candy, and trinkets for the holiday. Flowers were everywhere, especially the fat orange marigolds that Yadira told her the Aztecs had used to honor their dead.

“My family grow these flowers on our farm especially for this holiday. It is good money for us, no?”

Luz thought it had to be, seeing that everyone—men, women, and children alike, were carrying bunches of them. Luz bought a bunch, too, to freshen up her own
ofrenda
later before she presented the box of ashes to the family. She felt all her earlier resentment vanish as she remembered that she had this most important contribution to offer to the family altar tonight—the box of Abuela's ashes that she'd carried all the way from Milwaukee to Michoacán.

Yadira loved to laugh and, linking arms with Luz, she led her from one booth to the next, eating sweets and making jokes about all the humorous sugar skeletons they saw. Luz couldn't resist and bought a toy skeleton that moved when she pulled the string.

At the end of the road they reached the impressive Catholic church, the focal point of the town. Luz stared agog at the church's entrance. It was completely covered in a dazzling display of fresh flowers. If she hadn't known they were flowers, she'd think she was seeing a stained-glass window. Women wearing traditional dark shawls over their heads were scurrying like ants carrying armfuls of even more flowers into the church. In the square before the church there were colorful stands selling fruit, pottery, arts and crafts, and
flowers. Musicians performed while children danced and played games of hide-and-seek.

“This way,” Yadira said, leading her through the throng in the square to the large black iron gate of the cemetery. Children were selling water from big, white buckets.

“Why are they selling water?” Luz asked.

“So visitors can wash the gravestones,” Yadira explained in a low voice. “We prepare the graves for the spirits' return.”

As they entered the cemetery, the mood was at once respectful. It was located on a dramatically high point overlooking the valley. Looking out, Luz felt that stirring of introspection she always did when faced with the majesty of a vista. A mist seemed to cloak the mountains in a somber shawl.

Many locals were already gathered at the graves, preparing them for the long night's vigil. Women wrapped in shawls and men in serapes carried their offerings with reverence to the graves of their deceased relatives. Others were busily scrubbing and cleaning the headstones. Luz smiled at a bored little boy sitting patiently beside a gravesite while his mother worked.

“Wait till tonight when you see the candles lit. It is most beautiful then,” Yadira told her.

Luz thought it was all so beautiful now. As she walked through the cemetery she admired the decorations on the graves. Each was different, yet unique. Some were elaborate and others simple Indian crosses. A mangy dog crept up to an
ofrenda
and stole a piece of bread from a basket. She chuckled and turned to tell Yadira but stopped short when she spotted Mariposa.

Mariposa raced against the sunset. She'd worked at a feverish pace since dawn but her
ofrenda
was not quite finished. She'd kept her eye on the neighboring
ofrendas
as the families worked, checking out their scale and scope. Hers had to be the most impressive, the most beautiful altar. Nothing less would do to honor her mother.

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.