nightgown in the shadow between my breasts.
At midday the sun was blazing and people lined the streets, crowds of people, some carrying umbrellas for shade. There were old women wearing checked aprons and shawls folded on their heads; old men in woven palm hats and stained white button-down shirts and goatskin sandals; little kids in Disney T-shirts holding each other’s hands; guys my age with baggy jeans and baseball caps; girls with tight skirts and halter tops. We had no umbrellas, so we pressed ourselves against the wall and waited for the parade and breathed in smells of roasting corn and sizzling meat. In front of us, a sawdust picture of a big white flower spanned the street, and farther on, a swirling medley of animals—foxes, deer, rabbits—filled an intersection.
Earlier, over scrambled eggs and refried beans in the courtyard, Dika had insisted on coming with us to see the parade, even though every few minutes more fireworks exploded. Mr. Lorenzo held her hand the entire time, and with every boom, I saw him squeeze it while her eyes tensed up and beads of sweat broke out above her lip. After each explosion, she wiped her forehead with a handkerchief and said, “Ha! That was not so bad!” and I breathed out in relief.
I held Pablo’s hand, and when no one was looking, Ángel would slip his hand into mine for a moment, or I would let my arm graze his, or he would touch me with the excuse of pointing out something and let his hand linger a few beats. The crowd was pushing us into each other and we let it happen. I loved the shade created just for a moment between his arm and mine, his face and my neck, my hair and his hand. And in this space, I could almost forget that he was leaving for good.
The parade came into view, first a big truck with the
moreno
Jesus on it—the dark-skinned Jesus on the cross—
El Señor de los Corazones
, the patron saint of Huajuapan. He had black flowing hair and a red velvet skirt trimmed with golden tassels and covered with
milagros
, silver prayer charms, pinned to the fabric. His skin was deep brown, darker than Pablo’s or Ángel’s. Women walked behind him, carrying umbrellas for shade, singing a hypnotic song about the Virgin and the Father and the Son, a mournful tune that I knew would be stuck in my head for days.
Then I realized something that gave me chills: The parade was destroying the artwork. But of course it would get destroyed. What had I been thinking? That the people would just push their way through crowds along the sidewalk instead? That the pictures would magically stay there forever?
I turned to Ángel. “They worked so hard on that! It’s so beautiful!”
He nodded.
The truck carrying Jesus inched toward us, followed by the women’s wobbly, high-pitched song. I tried to soak in the flower and fox and rabbit and deer before the wheels plowed through. After the women passed, children in uniforms marched by, playing earsplitting trumpets and drums. Then people from the sidewalks joined the parade, and children wove around their parents, screaming and laughing and kicking up the sawdust.
My heartbeat quickened; my skin grew prickly, my head dizzy.
At that moment, Pablo slipped his hand out of mine and disappeared into the crowd. “Pablo!” My voice didn’t carry far with all the noise and music. And then I saw him, in the street with the other children, stomping on the colored sawdust, destroying every last trace of the pictures.
“I can’t believe they’re doing this!”
Ángel spoke calmly. “But I think that’s the point, Sophie.”
“What?” I felt faint. I took a gulp from my water bottle and tried to keep my eyes glued on Pablo. “To make something incredibly beautiful, and then, before you even get to enjoy it, mess it up?”
He gave me a puzzled look. “What about the memory? You’ll have that.”
I glared at my reflection in his glasses. “Memory isn’t something real. Something you can touch.”
“But the memory
At midday the sun was blazing and people lined the streets, crowds of people, some carrying umbrellas for shade. There were old women wearing checked aprons and shawls folded on their heads; old men in woven palm hats and stained white button-down shirts and goatskin sandals; little kids in Disney T-shirts holding each other’s hands; guys my age with baggy jeans and baseball caps; girls with tight skirts and halter tops. We had no umbrellas, so we pressed ourselves against the wall and waited for the parade and breathed in smells of roasting corn and sizzling meat. In front of us, a sawdust picture of a big white flower spanned the street, and farther on, a swirling medley of animals—foxes, deer, rabbits—filled an intersection.
Earlier, over scrambled eggs and refried beans in the courtyard, Dika had insisted on coming with us to see the parade, even though every few minutes more fireworks exploded. Mr. Lorenzo held her hand the entire time, and with every boom, I saw him squeeze it while her eyes tensed up and beads of sweat broke out above her lip. After each explosion, she wiped her forehead with a handkerchief and said, “Ha! That was not so bad!” and I breathed out in relief.
I held Pablo’s hand, and when no one was looking, Ángel would slip his hand into mine for a moment, or I would let my arm graze his, or he would touch me with the excuse of pointing out something and let his hand linger a few beats. The crowd was pushing us into each other and we let it happen. I loved the shade created just for a moment between his arm and mine, his face and my neck, my hair and his hand. And in this space, I could almost forget that he was leaving for good.
The parade came into view, first a big truck with the
moreno
Jesus on it—the dark-skinned Jesus on the cross—
El Señor de los Corazones
, the patron saint of Huajuapan. He had black flowing hair and a red velvet skirt trimmed with golden tassels and covered with
milagros
, silver prayer charms, pinned to the fabric. His skin was deep brown, darker than Pablo’s or Ángel’s. Women walked behind him, carrying umbrellas for shade, singing a hypnotic song about the Virgin and the Father and the Son, a mournful tune that I knew would be stuck in my head for days.
Then I realized something that gave me chills: The parade was destroying the artwork. But of course it would get destroyed. What had I been thinking? That the people would just push their way through crowds along the sidewalk instead? That the pictures would magically stay there forever?
I turned to Ángel. “They worked so hard on that! It’s so beautiful!”
He nodded.
The truck carrying Jesus inched toward us, followed by the women’s wobbly, high-pitched song. I tried to soak in the flower and fox and rabbit and deer before the wheels plowed through. After the women passed, children in uniforms marched by, playing earsplitting trumpets and drums. Then people from the sidewalks joined the parade, and children wove around their parents, screaming and laughing and kicking up the sawdust.
My heartbeat quickened; my skin grew prickly, my head dizzy.
At that moment, Pablo slipped his hand out of mine and disappeared into the crowd. “Pablo!” My voice didn’t carry far with all the noise and music. And then I saw him, in the street with the other children, stomping on the colored sawdust, destroying every last trace of the pictures.
“I can’t believe they’re doing this!”
Ángel spoke calmly. “But I think that’s the point, Sophie.”
“What?” I felt faint. I took a gulp from my water bottle and tried to keep my eyes glued on Pablo. “To make something incredibly beautiful, and then, before you even get to enjoy it, mess it up?”
He gave me a puzzled look. “What about the memory? You’ll have that.”
I glared at my reflection in his glasses. “Memory isn’t something real. Something you can touch.”
“But the memory
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