The Land of Green Stomachs

I had a dream last night after hearing Sonia's story.

A sea of green stems covered the fields below the dipping hills and gray mountains. The perfume of marigolds stretched far, and their scent was carried by the gentle wind through the strands of my messy hair. I looked into the distance, eyeing what my abuela called "the land of green stomachs." It was an area of rich soil where vegetation would thrive, a symbol of vitality and nutrients being soaked through nature's veins.

The marigolds, orange and yellow, with dots of red in some spots of the flower field, were to be collected soon for the return of our loved ones. The petals guided them back to us from the other side, where they lay waiting in the afterlife.

Sonia's pueblo was alive with aged hands baking pan de muerto, the sweet bread shaped like bones, and papel picado, the colorful banners that criss- crossed through stone streets and low houses. All the graveyards were going to be lively with the presence of the dead, adorned with marvelous spreads of food and pictures of solemn faces that looked into the pupils of their great grandchildren dancing around.

My blue skirt almost reached my feet, as I started running through the town. I was looking for my abuelo, my grandfather who knew how to draw. I searched through stores, glanced at open alleys, and wandered around as the wind picked up. I knew he would be waiting somewhere, but I didn't know how to find him.

It wasn't too long after running around that I found a mirror.

Laying on the side of a house, it seemed odd to be left ungaurded. The mirror's frame was adorned with gold and pieces of colorful glass that welcomed me.

Slowly, I approached the dusty exterior of its glass panel.

But looking into the mirror, I realized that I was turning into a flower. My black hair fused into long sunset petals, and my legs turned green with chlorophyll. Like the landscape, my stomach was the forest. Even the blue skirt started to change, and they became the sea that touched the sandy beaches of the west coast.

I became the earth, and the flowers of the dead called me back to their home. I wanted to dig my roots into the ground too.

That is, until I woke up covered in hot tears and startled by the rigid alarm dragging me back to the world. No longer was I a drooping marigold in a field for the ofrendas, the altars.

Instead, I was back in my apartment complex with a half-empty glass of water on the nightstand and textbooks sitting next to the small silver tray. The heaviness returned to me again, and I knew that tonight I would have to light the candles for the disheveled altar in the corner of my room.

Once I pulled on my winter coat and gathered my things for the morning classes, I headed out the door with a broken sigh. The 157 bus rattled around the corner, hissing as I got on to pay my fare. The entire day was somber, and there were no mountains to look at like there were in the dream.

Looking out onto the campus, I knew that the dead would not return here. It was not the place for them, and I was alone in my journey. I felt like my grandfather wouldn't travel to eat a single lackluster apple that was left on the desk of a depressed college student. The tias, all the aunts who have passed, would be disappointed to see that I have still not combed the long midnight hair that falls to my waist. Instead, it gets thrown around by the whips of icy wind while my glasses become fogged from the scarf around my neck.

I was not the bloodline they asked for, nor wanted. I carried my sadness in my knapsack, and highlighted the psychology textbooks with fancy highlighters I bought on a manic spending spree. Nothing about me said that I was a woman to be proud of, or a woman to be admired by those trying to remember her legacy. That is how I felt at this moment, and how it would continue to stay.

Before class, I decided to run to the bathroom to fix my top after everything became disorganized by the chaotic rush to class. The sinks were neatly lined in a row, placed underneath a wide mirror with slight water stains on the surface.

Ugh...almost time for class. Okay, get it together.

I approached the sink, and began washing my hands first. It was a dreadful habit, and I always ended up rewashing them a good number of times throughout the day. As I washed, I looked at the creases under my eyes and the crazy frizz of my long hair from the journey up to school. I felt like a mess alright.

As I let the water run over my hands a little longer, I noticed something strange. The bathroom lighting was slightly dimmer than before. When I stared up at my reflection, I saw that half my bones were exposed on my face.

Wait, what the...is...

The bones of my teeth were somehow visible on one side, now covered with a sheer layer of translucent skin. My hands began to turn green, and they grew small leaves.

Soon I looked like a skeleton, then a flower, and then a skeleton once more. I was in utter disbelief, and tried to leave the spot I was standing in but couldn't. No one was around, and I was the only person left in the bathroom. Nothing stopped changing me.

Petals that grew became more permanent looking, and I saw my face began to change into a variety of shapes. The transformation kept happening until all I was, was a single orange marigold.

I dropped to the sink, and became a lonely flower left at the white counter. The bathroom was silent again.

A couple of girls walked in, laughing about their poor exam scores and shared nuisance of the professors.

"Hey look, someone left a little flower. So weird."

"Actually, maybe we can take it back with us. I need another one anyway."

Later that night, I was mended into a flower on someone's crown. With petals like the sun, I stood out in a parade of candles and painted faces on the streets of Chicago. Amidst the music, I saw my abuelo's spirit return.