See the Sun

Love is subjective.

It wraps us tight in pastel blankets during our childhood, and it begins with a kiss goodnight from our parents. Love can be that first date nervousness, a celebration of a 40 year marriage, or a cake made from scratch for your friend's birthday.

It is a short word, but it always means everything at once. It's so convoluted.

Yet, I realized that I would never feel it again.

Without Lalo, I haven't felt love for awhile. When I painted my face in black and white, the orange and yellow strings of marigolds watched me as they hung over the doorways in my house. Lalo's picture, taken on a polaroid only a few years back, was placed in a dark wood frame on my lonely altar. His eyes could be seen piercing through the smoke of copal and incense being lit in the evenings.

That was my favorite part of him. Those eyes were always so piercingly black.

Lalo is another name for Eduardo. My Lalo, Eduardo Macias, lived in the city while I was stuck in suburb further away from the epicenter of New York. We met like every other 20 year old does in this era: on a dating app. I thought that, after countless failed dates with men who didn't want anything more than a body, I was destined for solitude. That is, until Eduardo showed up.

Eduardo laughed wholeheartedly at all my stupid jokes, picked up my favorite snacks on the way to my house, and always rubbed my hands during my anxiety attacks. He was genuine and open to the idea of love, like I was at the time. When we rode the green line together, I saw the sun in his face.

He was everything.

When he passed unexpectedly over the summer, I realized that I needed him more than anything. His soul was crossing over the river and into the afterlife, yet I was still stuck on earth without him. Clutching the picture frame, I knew I had to wait until it was my own time to see him again. But since grief continued to work its way into my head, thinking about it made the pain almost unbearable.

I really believed that my life would be cut out for me when I met Lalo. With him, I pictured all the pieces coming together. I had images of me smiling, packing up boxes and moving away from this house. With Lalo I had a partnership, and I saw my goals being achieved as I transcended from what I had now.

But those were all the empty promises of June. It was now November.

There was only one night I knew he would return to me. In my bedroom, I prepared for Dia de los muertos by filling the ofrenda with incense, offerings of food, his gold necklace, and colorful papeles. Seeing his picture next to my abuelo's was grim. He wasn't supposed to be there yet. Our kids were meant to look at us standing side by side in our old age, giving us gifts of apples and coca-cola bottles on the altar.

As I lit my candles, I whispered to Lalo.

When you come back tonight, please hold my hands again like you used to.

"Mari, are you coming?" my mom called from the kitchen.

It was already getting late into the afternoon, and we were supposed to go to the city's annual parade together. Everyone would be dressed in elaborate skeleton costumes and makeup, marching to celebrate the life of those who had passed.

"Si, mama I'll be there in a minute."

I kissed the picture of Lalo and stared at myself in the dusty mirror that hung on my gray wall. Half of my face was painted with the striking black outlines of a skull, and adorned with colorful patterns around my cheeks. Clutching my red shawl, I knew that he would be proud of me for even trying.

My mom and I boarded the train, and we were soon whisked away into the hustle and bustle of the city's gridlock. As the train cars bounced across the metal tracks, I thought of him over and over. When I looked at the empty seats across from us, I saw Lalo and I laughing.

When will this end?

Taking a deep breath, I listened to the train stops being read over the static of the intercom.

"This is our stop."

Sluggishly, I followed my mom up the stairs of the subway stop and into the evening glow of the street view. Candles were lit all around, as a large crowd gathered to march in celebration. Many marigolds were used as headpieces to people's costumes, and bundles of bright flowers were being sold from small vendors.

Soon enough, the banda began to play and the parade was beginning.

A voice began to sing:

"Si están esperando el día que me muera

Pa' llevarme flores

Jalarse la banda y llorar por mi ausencia

Con tristes canciones..."

The lyrics were saying if you died, a band would sing sad songs and flowers would be brought to you.

Women around me twirled and danced, while skeletal kids began running with their friends in an attempt to weave through the crowds. I walked with my mom, looking back and forth at all those enjoying the festivities. But, it all felt like a sad painting that was melting into my eyes.

"I'm going to catch up with you later, mama. I'm going to check out the vendors."

"Okay, don't go too far my love. Call me in half an hour."

I excused myself and rushed through the crowd, looking for any store or cafe to sit in. It was all too much, and I couldn't do it like I had thought. Luckily, I spotted the red and yellow painted trim of a local coffee shop that was still open.

"Welcome!" The older lady behind the counter smiled as the bell rang, letting her know I had entered.

"Hi, uh... one medium black coffee with extra sugar please," I said awkwardly.

Taking a seat, I waited for her to bring me my coffee. The parade was growing larger outside, as more people came to join the procession. After a couple minutes passed, the lady brought my drink and pulled out a single yellow marigold with a note attached to it.

"Enjoy, hermosa." She left the coffee and flower on the table, turning around quickly to return to her work.

I smiled weakly, and began to sip on the coffee. I twirled my fingers for a bit, and decided to open the note tied onto the stem of the marigold. It was a pretty shade of pink, folded neatly down the middle.

When I opened the note, my hand that clutched the coffee lost its grip. Black coffee was spilled everywhere, and it seeped into my white blouse. It ran through the veins on the linoleum floor, and it stained the tips of my huaraches. Even as my hands trembled, the lady at the counter turned to smile at me.

Inside the note, I saw something that scared me, baffled me, and rattled my anxiety to the core. When I opened the pink paper, there was a drawing of a sun on one side, and a short handwritten message on the other.

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I'm sorry I left you, my love. I will come home soon,

but I am okay.

-Lalo

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When I turned my head around to face the counter, the lady was no longer there. She might've slipped quietly to the back, but I wasn't sure. I needed to ask her how she knew him, and what this note meant.

If Lalo is not dead, where did he go...?