Free Luminous by Dawn Metcalf

ending, never changing. Always beginning, ever changing.
    Consuela spun around, looking for something she couldn’t see. She wanted something to be different. Something other than how she remembered it.
    It hasn’t changed! She felt her panic without a pulse. It hasn’t changed one bit since . . .
    Since the bath.
    The lump.
    And her skin on the floor.
    Crashing into bed, Consuela burst into tears. Pulling the pillow hard against her mouth, she screamed. She tried to swallow the muffled sounds and unmake them. Never happen. Never have happened. She screamed over and over—wordless, wrenching screams—crying until she fell quiet, spent.
    The sounds all meant: I want my mom!
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    He watched her—he always watched over her now—but he did not like to watch her cry.
    He moved his hand as if to smooth her hair, but let it fall back into silver.
    She didn’t need him.
    He sat vigil as she slept.

chapter six
    â€œTell me how you die and I will tell you who you are.”
    â€”OCTAVIO PAZ
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    SHE was dreaming. Maybe.
    As she stepped out into the hallway, bright pillar candles sprang to life, bathing the hall in a warm, chili-oil glow. The top quarters shone, soft and waxy white like shafts of moonlight topped in gold. Tall candles and orange flowers lined the hall, the scent a weird mixture of autumn and home.
    Taking another step was like passing into Oz. The colors flipped suddenly into golds and russet reds; white softened to corn yellow and black became plum. Sound pressed a thick blanket against her ears, smothering everything save the deep drumbeat of her pulse. That she could hear clearly. A clock in her heart.
    Squinting at one of the candles, Consuela saw something move inside the light. She bent closer to look. Inside the heart of each flame and flower, there was a tiny sort of stick figure, dancing. Skeletons—every one of them—dressed in clothes as she dressed in skins, dancing merrily to a tune she could almost hear.
    The men tapped in the candle flames, heels snapping and kicking smartly on the white-hot wick. Proud and joyful, some wore suits or unbuttoned vests, while others pranced in wildly striped ponchos and stiff, wide-brimmed hats. One dancer in particular caught her eye—a mustache curled impossibly over his bony grimace and his sombrero winked as the light caught its silver thread. Consuela felt her face crinkle in a smile as he, undeniably, smiled back.
    Skeletal women whirled within the hearts of marigolds, petals blending into their shawls and layered skirts as they twirled, hands on their hips, stepping in time with their bony, bare feet. They were beautiful, equally proud of their richly colored finery and familiarity with the rollicking tune.
    All of them smiled, all of them beckoned, welcoming Consuela to the thousand souls’ revelry, inviting her to dance.
    Consuela gazed at their beauty, the power of their motions, as the petals slowly rotated and the firelight wove in the breeze. She envied the carefree spirits with their sharp boot heels and their cascading hems.
    Día de los Muertos, she marveled. It was as gorgeous as she’d imagined. As a little girl, Consuela had often daydreamed about what the fiesta would be like—only having the words of her grandma Celina to guide her since her parents no longer celebrated. Consuela knew her father missed it, the Day of the Dead. She’d always wished she’d had this growing up, to feel the spirits surround her like old friends and family, not like something scary, but something wonderful and free. To really feel part of something. To feel safe. To believe. Consuela swept giddily down the hall, happiness bubbling out the soles of her feet.
    Generations spun and snapped, jostled and turned, danced and cavorted in the sunset glow. The hallway stretched out into space, its candles and blooms fading into a purpled distance. It was impossible to see where it led, but something