Humans logo

Miracles and Marigolds

by Aaron Infante-Levy

By Aaron Infante-LevyPublished 3 years ago 4 min read
1

Mi hijo,” whistled his grandmother. Señora Araceli Reyes insisted the tousle-haired teen stop long enough in his downward trajectory to plant a kiss on her cheek and embarrassedly whisper that he loved her, before bounding down the stairs. “Remember, home before midnight and don’t touch any food that belongs to the dead.” She stood at the threshold, hands taut, lower lip gnawing an invisible bone as she watched after him.

If there were an Olympic medal for flipping his collar in that practiced coolness only teenagers could claim authentic ownership of, Raúl would have taken home gold, silver, and bronze. Clicking his tongue and brushing off the teasing from his two friends, Raúl jogged down the street aways, hands stuffed in his pockets, still feeling the debris from whatever his grandmother stuffed in there. With a scrunched up nose, Raúl shook out his pockets of bits of wax, crushed and charred sage.

“Your grandma is old school, guey,” came Javier’s inevitably melodramatic voice from over his shoulder, hitting those tones right between charming and irritating. “I could hear her going ‘Our Lady of the Holy Death, protect us. Our Lady of the Holy Death…’”

Baked sweets mingled with candles left burning too long and the acrid scent of motor oil as the three boys passed the autoshop with its shrines to the owner’s parents set out in a patchwork of purple tinsel paper and carpet of marigolds, atop which rested garishly painted sugar skulls and photographs of the husband and wife. Pirro slapped his friends’ shoulders, speaking too fast over the pumpkin seeds he was chewing, “I swear I smelled moto coming from your grandparents’ building, Raúl. You think they’re smoking that good herb?”

Rolling his eyes despite the unbidden chuckle, Raúl smiled as he looked down at the street with its rivulets of oil-slicked water, candy wrappers, and fallen flower petals. When a motorcycle misfired, his face became a mask of pale fear, eyes scanning the cloudy horizon for any sign of lightning. Both friends had grown accustomed to seeing that look overtake Raúl ever since the lightning accident. For a moment, the boys quietly made their way past the Friday lunch traffic and Day of the Dead festivities. It started with a tingle and then an excrutiatingly bright light, as if he were engulfed in a sphere where time slowed down, followed by unimaginable searing pain. Raúl could recall everything from that day down by the river with his father, and the mysterious silence that followed. One day his father was there, the next he was just gone, as if the sky had split apart and swallowed up the old ER nurse. Tugging at his long sleeved shirt to make sure his sleeves covered the scars, Raúl spotted two younger children playing on the high swing at the base of the graveyard. Kick out, pump back, clinging with all your strength, then lean back as the panorama of the city and sloping street stretched out before you with infinite possibilities – the feeling was burned into his muscle memory.

“There it is!” grinned Pirro, pointing toward the tapestry of bright auburn and coral colored flowers that covered the mausoleum. Even though there were only so many flower shops who could be credited with the beautiful sea of marigolds, no one was taking credit for the tapestry. None of the boys even remembered who was interred in the mausoleum, with an Aztec missionary flitting about their excited brains, half-remembered from school. Bounding up the concrete stairs, the teen practically tore the rusty gate off its hinges, his red hair intermittently swallowed by the massive unflinching orangeness.

That smell, like smoky blossoms, reminded Raúl of his grandmother’s old ranch, before they’d moved to the city. Glancing back at Javier, Raúl quickened his pace so as not to lose Pirro. He passed the ofrendas, private altars ripe with the smell of soursops and glasses of wine and beer left for the cherished dead, adorned with small clusters of cempasúchiles, what everyone in the barrio called the flowers that grew in the foothills. It wasn’t until all the boys were gathered around the mausoleum stretching nearly double their height that the entirety of the tapestry became clear. They were dwarfed by its immensity and drawn in by the subtle shades. A darkening here was the furrow of a lower eyelid, an intentional void there was a nostril, and a flourish of marigolds leaning to the yellow end of the spectrum highlighted the cheekbones and chin. Before them was a flawless depiction of Raúl’s father with a grin so broad the corners of his eyes wrinkled in waves of floral browning. A small crowd had gathered to snap photos and record videos on their phones, with several whispers of “Díos mío” washing over the onlookers.

“Is that…” began Pirro, exchanging a glance with Javier before both looked to Raúl.

Even after only a few years, Raúl’s memory betrayed the image of his father into a pastiche of photographs and stories others told. Holding onto his father’s voice was easier than the image of his father. Yet, woven in hues of vermillion, tomato, coral, and gold the mandala became more real than anything behind Raúl’s eyes. Voice catching in his throat, all Raúl could manage was mutely nodding. It was as if three years later, the sky had opened and that lightning bolt had left behind this memorial. Tears welled in his eyes, and as Raúl moved to brush them from his cheek, he realized it was not a tear running down but the first of several rain drops. A boom of thunder echoed in the foothills, followed by lightning illuminating the city limits. For the first time since the accident, Raúl could breathe again and he wasn’t afraid.

family
1

About the Creator

Reader insights

Be the first to share your insights about this piece.

How does it work?

Add your insights

Comments

There are no comments for this story

Be the first to respond and start the conversation.

Sign in to comment

    Find us on social media

    Miscellaneous links

    • Explore
    • Contact
    • Privacy Policy
    • Terms of Use
    • Support

    © 2024 Creatd, Inc. All Rights Reserved.