Free The Butterfly’s Daughter by Mary Alice, Monroe

it felt to her like running back home with her tail between her legs. She turned the corner and stopped in her tracks. There, dominating the stone wall of the garage, Luz saw an enormous, brilliantly colored mural of La Virgen de Guadalupe.
    Luz’s mouth slipped open. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
    It was a magnificent mural. The Virgin Mary was resplendent, enshrined in a brilliant gold aura that rained down upon theearth. Gold stars floating in her robe caught the sunlight and sparkled.
    Abuela had lit a candle every night before the icon of La Virgen de Guadalupe to say her prayers. She’d told Luz that Mexicans were more devoted to this beloved image of La Virgen than to the national flag.
    â€œIt’s a sign,” Luz whispered, and held the box of ashes closer to her chest. She imagined what Abuela would have done at this moment. Or her mother. They wouldn’t have stopped now. Not even a monarch would turn back at its first obstacle. She had to have faith. But just in case, she made the sign of the cross.
    Luz walked several blocks but didn’t see the bus stop. A few men in open shirts leaning against a black iron fence eyed her but she ignored them, veering away to follow two women pushing strollers, heads bent toward each other in conversation. Then, like an unexpected gift, there appeared a small taqueria. Outside the door was a welcoming terra-cotta pot overflowing with cheery red and yellow flowers, and above it was a hand-painted sign with a colorful rendering of an iguana and crude letters spelling out EL IGUANA . She recalled how Abuela always said you couldn’t think on an empty stomach.
    â€œPerfect,” she whispered.
    One step inside and the scent of chilies, corn, and spices carried her back to her grandmother’s kitchen. Even ranchero music was blaring. On the long wall to the left was a colorful, primitive mural of a mountain village in Mexico with farmers working the soil, women doing laundry at a cistern, and children teasing a dog. Here and there throughout the mural fluttered monarch butterflies.
    Feeling more at ease, she took a place in the long lunchtime line.Behind the counter a harried young woman was scurrying at a mad pace to write down the orders shouted out by the customers. Her wild, curly hair was loosely held back by a hot pink headband and elastic. Though very pregnant, she managed the orders with a combination of tough-girl attitude and wise-ass humor.
    One look at the cooking area and Luz knew why the little taqueria was so popular. It was what she imagined a taqueria in Mexico would look like. The black iron grill was surrounded by baskets brimming with fresh green heads of cabbage, big yellow and orange peppers, and the ever-present avocados. Beside these were trays of thinly sliced onions, tomatoes, and beef. The cook was a burly man standing wide-legged over the steaming grill, a sagging, grease-stained apron double-wrapped around his paunch. But he could flip tortillas with the finesse of a matador.
    Luz’s mouth watered and she thought of the bag of uneaten donuts in the car. She hadn’t been hungry since Abuela’s death a week earlier, but looking at all the foods Abuela used to cook, she felt suddenly starved. Most of the people in front of Luz were ordering takeout, so she was able to find a free table at the rear of the restaurant.
    Luz had no idea where in the city she was, but embraced by the familiar tastes and sounds of her Mexican heritage, she felt strangely at home. The Spanish language that she’d never wanted to speak at home was comforting to her now. She ate slowly, in no hurry to come to a decision. The lunch rush was ending. Only a few people lingered in the taqueria. Luz stirred her soda with a straw, mulling over her options, which at the moment seemed to hover between calling Sully immediately and calling him after he finished work.
    â€œHey, miss?”
    Luz looked up at the woman calling her in