Colors of Cempasúchitl

Brown dolls on my nightstand wear braids, trenzas, with ribbons weaving in between thick strands.

Their colors are purple and pink.

Dolls on my dresser have black hair, like the loose hair that falls to my waist.

They have deep lines, some cracks in the nail polish, and wear on tiny palms.

Dolls on my shelf sit in during sessions, hand me tissues, and close their eyes when I write.

They never look when I am changing colors, or else theirs will change too.

My abuela traveled far for these, but she didn't pick up "Latinidad" on the way back.

To my greatest reflief, there were no hot cheetos, "jefa/boss" earrings, or Mexican flags hastily packed into suitcases for us to twirl around with.

Dolls on my desk do not come with a handbook for talking to my ancestors, or avoiding mistakes as we correct ourselves.

I tried to stretch above canopies in forests, but realized it is crowded.

But in my 20's, I began to see these colors move.

The embroidered dresses of my dolls were mended together in a pueblo I have never visited, yet I miss the blue air.

I always thank the hands that created these dolls, and I thank the women of my family who brought them to me.

The women are yellow and red.

These colors dance around them at all times, and urge me to join them.

Sometimes, I can't.

But in Chicago, I am always floating with orange. I just call it Cempasúchitl.

Cempasúchitl cushions the dolls in my room, it lines the bare altar I have, the photos that don't speak anymore, and the memories on my computer screen from 2018.

Marigolds are a mix of yellow and orange, because Cempasúchitl is for the dead.

The flower fields draw those who have passed back through the white glow of the Earth's outer rim, and allows them to stay with us.

I am orange because I have mastered confusion.

I have wandered through parks, through stations, and through dorm hallways wondering about how my brain is doing across the street.

It stays in the Jesse Brown Hospital for days, but it doesn't move.

I get so worried about it, since it isn't always showing any color in those layers of MRIs.

Like the purpose of Cempasúchitl, I always felt like I was hovering around the streets of Cermak wondering where everyone had gone.

But, then I remembered the color of the storefronts and dimming skies after a long day of medications spilling. I was reeling in my image.

Orange was independence and trust.

I would see through the glass panels of my apartment, that the orange vibrated and crashed in anyway, filling up the vapor I left.

I was doing this life thing cluelessly and disconnected from reality, until an ultraviolet spectrum actually existed.

Dolls on my nightstand look over to see the orange hues on my arms and nose.

Orange is the color of change, of safety, and willingness to expand.

They see the sun setting and a safe day in the future beginning.