Free Doll of Mine (A Dia de los Muertos Story) by Lila Felix

 
    Doll of Mine
    Lila Felix
     
     
     
    ONE
     
    “Why do you insist on doing this mija ? Too many things could go badly. That place is trouble.”
    Three weeks Alma had endured the constant questioning from her mother. Within the last few days the questions had turned into begging. She sighed and rolled her dark eyes while facing the bag she was packing. Never would she let her mother see the gesture of disrespect.
    “Mamá, please, I have to. I can’t go to school anymore—I’ve had this planned for months with my friend. I keep my promises. ”
    Her mother, a plump, traditional woman, believed in every superstition—in every urban legend from La Llorona to the Chupacabra and everything in between. Precautions for avoiding such things that bumped in the night, and some during the day, ranged from not going out under the full moon to not cutting her hair during the new moon. She was told to close the windows before a storm, not shower when she was sick and even had to touch her right foot to the floor first in the morning.
    Some of them were ridiculous sounding to the young woman. But at eighteen with a bright future ahead of her, she followed all of them to a T, more fearful of the consequences than the rituals themselves. Her plan was simple. She had always intended to become a teacher. After all, it was in the classroom where one’s circumstances no longer shone brighter than one’s talents. Hard work equaled good results. There was no questioning or relying on outside forces to pull you through—like her mother’s superstitions.
    She followed the essential ones simply to keep the peace.
    Except this time—this time she followed her gut.
    The place where the girl had chosen to travel was cursed in the eyes of her mother.
    But it called to her, beckoned her like a Siren in the sea.
    “ Por favor , take care and whatever you do…”
    Exasperated, she stuffed the last piece of clothing into the leather saddlebag and turned to her mother. She wasn’t staying long, but still wanted to be prepared in case.
    “I won’t Mamá , I promise. We are going, taking the tour, and them coming back for the visit to the cemetery. That’s all. I wouldn’t miss it. Now, let me help you finish cooking before I have to go get our order of dulces .”
    Carmelita, Alma’s mother, cut discriminating eyes at her daughter, letting her know that though she’d attempted to dismiss the issue, Carmelita’s attempts to stop her daughter from going wouldn’t cease until it was too late.
    The mother and daughter stirred pots of savory beans and rice, while the fresh tamales steamed in Alma’s grandmother’s traditional clay pot. Her mother had spent the morning knee-deep in sweet dough, forming and shaping the bread into shapes of bones before baking them and dusting them with powdered sugar. There was still much to do. Food and decorations had to be ready to pay homage to their dead loved ones in the form of food and a welcoming shrine. The people of Mexico put their best dishes out to appease and attract the dead once a year. This was their chance to honor the lives of those they’d loved and they did so with all their hearts.
    Alma thought of her American counterparts, as she’d learned in school, who spent the night, the last night of October, dressed up as spooks and haunts, begging for candy from strangers. A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth as pride welled in her chest at the long-standing traditions of her ancestors.
    The holiday had become even more special after the passing of her father.
    She looked at the spread of gifts already taking shape before her. All of her father’s favorite foods would be presented at the altar in their home in addition to his grave, inviting him to visit them. He was especially fond of her mother’s mole. She added a bit of spice to it that was still kept a very intimate secret.
    They didn’t have much money anymore—not that they’d been rich by any stretch of the imagination