Today, Mamá Imelda was at work.
Technically she was at work every day, but today she was at work and working. As the face of the business, she did not often have time to make shoes herself. Mamá Imelda was the one who gave estimates on bulk orders, made deliveries, and shook down—that is, persuaded—the odd debtor for late payments.
When it came to shoes, each member of the Rivera family had something they were best at: the twins loved to hammer soles and punch eyelets, Rosita enjoyed polishing as well as keeping track of inventory, Julio kept a steady hand with carving designs, and Victoria ruled supreme over sewing the final touches. But Imelda? She could do it all.
In a sense, that was to be expected. It was Imelda who had taught each and every one of them the shoemaker's art. It was Imelda who had kissed her daughter goodbye each morning before dawn, leaving her in her uncles' care as she trekked across Santa Cecilia to sit for sixteen hours at the side of a wizened old cobbler. It was Imelda who had lived, breathed, dreamed of shoes for decades, doing whatever it took to learn as much as possible about the craft.
In short, Imelda was an expert's expert.
"Calfskin, Mamá Imelda?"
"I think so, yes." Her bony fingers ran expertly over the leather, feeling for any glaring flaws in the material. She squinted, holding each piece up to the light with an appraiser's eye. Finally she nodded to herself, choosing the highest quality pieces from their more-than-ample supply. Rosita watched, her pen hovering over the clipboard of inventory assets.
"Are they for Papá Héctor's boots?" Imelda stopped in her tracks, looking over her shoulder with a glare that would—and often did—frighten the dead.
"Again with the Papá Héctor?" she grunted, shaking her head. "When did he earn that privilege?" She opened the cabinet of lasts, mouth pursed as she searched the sizes. "Papá Héctor. Hmph!"
"Well…" Rosita looked to Julio for support, but the only thing he could offer was a bemused shrug. "He is your husband, after all."
"Bah!" Imelda yanked two lasts from the shelf, holding one in each hand and eyeballing them with a scowl. "He is not fit to call me his wife!"
"And yet you make his boots," Victoria whispered to the leather in her hands.
"What did you say?"
"Nothing, Mamá Imelda." She bent her head to hide her smile as the lasts hit the workbench with a solid thump. Necks cracking and throats clearing, the family settled into their afternoon shift without another word. They were nearly a month behind on orders, with plenty to keep them busy.
Taking up one of the lasts in her hand, Imelda closed her eyes and pictured Héctor's feet. Long, thin toes, dusty from the roads. A tiny fracture on the right talus that had not yet re-fused. She could not remember what his feet looked like as a living man—why would she have cared, in those days? But when she had measured his feet, she was surprised to find them large and flat, with hardly any arch to speak of. Had he lived to be an old man, he would have surely suffered from arthritis.
She did not like to think of him as old.
Imelda felt over the smooth wood, her hands taking the place of her eyes as she recalled the way his bones had felt in her palms. The measurements she'd taken were merely a guide; she fared much better when she relied on her memory. Don Martín, the widower who had taught her the art of shoemaking, had praised that sort of talent.
"You'll make good business that way, so long as you don't lose your head. There's nothing wrong with double-checking your own work."
Imelda had taken those words to heart, and with good results. It was unfortunate that she had not been able to find Don Martín in this world, to thank him properly. She hated to think that he had already moved on, to that nebulous unknown that souls journeyed to after being forgotten by all living men.
Shaking the errant thoughts from her head, she forced herself to focus on her main task: filling the lasts. This was when she was at her best, blocking out everything but the sensation of wet scraps of leather beneath her hands, molding it to the wooden casts and adjusting until everything was absolutely perfect. Héctor had less of an arch, but his left forefoot had a little bump that would need extra room, or else it might rub against the inner lining. The last thing she needed was for him to gloat about any so-called blisters.
Double-check, double-check…. Imelda measured the lasts carefully, proud to find herself with only one or two miniscule errors, easily fixed. She added padding on one side and removed it from the other, measuring again before nodding her satisfaction. Even if she did not make many boots anymore—at least, not in the quantities she used to—she still had the magic touch.
You… you still got it.
Ugh! Concentrate, Imelda. She took a deep breath, running her hands steadily over the lasts. Don't waste time thinking about him. But it was hard not to, when she was busy making his boots. Looking them over again, she ran her fingers over the lasts to ensure there were no missed spots. When finished, they would be a beautiful pair of Rivera boots, ones guaranteed to last several lifetimes.
Setting the lasts aside, she turned her attention to the pieces of calfskin. She gently touched it with the tip of one finger, a smile rising unbidden. Leather, in all its forms, was so diverse. It could be rough or smooth, suede or patent, buckskin or goatskin. There were even exotic leathers such as eel or ostrich skin! But the calfskin… smooth, durable calfskin—that was her favorite. It was the best, especially for boots.
I'm only giving him the best so that he won't complain.
She traced the soft leather, wondering—as she often did—how she could still feel the texture of it, the warmth, when she had no skin or nerves to speak of. Being a skeleton was far more intrusive on the senses than one might think. Thankfully, what remained were mostly good things; pain was not much of a factor when you could not accidentally kill yourself. Other than the shock value and the perceived sensation, left from the vulnerable living days, the only thing that seemed remotely painful was the Final Death.
She steered her thoughts away from that tumultuous subject with another little shake. There was no reason to waste good leather with needless distraction. Hunching her shoulders, she bent low over the workbench while she traced the shapes, cutting slowly so that each piece would be worth keeping. Soon all the pieces were ready; the few scraps that remained could be used to shape more lasts. Imelda prided herself on not wasting leather, on using only what was needed. Pragmatic, practical, and pristine: this was the Rivera way.
Now that the main cutting was finished, she could breathe a little easier. She knew of a large piece of thick leather she could use for the lining, if the twins had not claimed it for one of their silly inventions. The boots would not be any stiffer for it, once she had finished stretching them out, and with the added protection they would be able to hold up to almost any physical activity. He would be able to dance on as many workbenches as he pleased, and not be bothered in the slightest.
Stop worming your way into my thoughts, Héctor! She huffed aloud, twisting a stray lock of hair back into the elegant braid. Though I shouldn't be surprised. You were always good at that.
She could barely remember a time when he wasn't on her mind, even before he started courting her. When they were young, Héctor had always contrived to be in the same part of Santa Cecilia that she was, watching her from the street corners and smiling that same goofy smile. He would bribe the twins for information, or even talk politely with her mother in the streets. Even in the foyer of her house, with her mamá scolding him for being so thin, nothing but skin and bones—
When a girl has to fall out of her own window to avoid you… can't you get it through your thick skull? Of course, she added, matching up the inner lining with the calfskin, it was all just nerves. She had been of age, and certainly old enough to recognize that the men of Santa Cecilia saw her as a woman, instead of a girl. She'd taken great pride in her appearance, and knew she was a beauty. But womanhood came too fast, and she'd not been ready for marriage.
Or, at least, not ready to settle down.
All her life she had watched after her brothers; the thought of more children, especially on the heels of her freedom, had made her sick to her stomach. And the boys always wanted to kiss, even if they weren't good at it… especially if they weren't good at it. Her first kiss had been with Franscico Aquino, behind the church one Sunday, and she had not liked it one bit. Too wet, too strange, not at all like the kisses her friends had giggled about. The ones that made your stomach swoop and your heart flutter.
Imelda smiled, remembering how her mother used to complain about the way she treated her would-be suitors back in those days. The men of Santa Cecilia had been frightened to death of her, small as she was. Of all the boys in town, only Oscar and Felipe had ever learned how to skirt the edges of her anger without earning a one-on-one meeting with the broad side of her shoe. Oh, but those clueless boys had loved to tease her, to whisper about how cute she was and openly pull her braid or tug at her dress, trying to anger her on purpose.
But when they found themselves flat on their backs, jaws bruised… well, they stopped talking to her altogether, and that was the way she'd liked it. When the men had stopped calling, her mother stopped hinting at wedding bells, and Imelda was able to go about her life in relative peace. Everyone had known to leave her alone, except for—
That Rivera boy, he is so sweet! So smart and handsome, don't you think? What's his name again?
And the twins, so dutiful in their brotherly attention, so happy to tease her in her humiliation:
Héctor! His name is Héctor!
Yes, Héctor! He has a cute face, doesn't he? A little flaco, perhaps, but a few months of home cooking would fix that right up! What do you mean, his face is ugly? What's wrong with him? He's a good boy, a hardworking boy. He would make a fine husband.
As if hard work and decency were the only factors in choosing a husband! But then, years later, had she not judged Julio on those very same factors? Julio was a hard worker, true, and he'd been a good and honest young man. But Imelda had not allowed him to court her daughter by virtue of that alone. It had been… something else, something in the way he'd looked at her Socorro. Just that one expression, that one glance, and she'd known without a doubt that he truly loved Coco. That he would do anything to make her happy.
Had her own mother seen the same thing when looking at Héctor, all those years ago?
"Hmm… he's late." The words pulled Imelda from her reverie, halting her knife. In agreement to Rosita's statement, the clock chimed half past four. Imelda straightened her shoulders, looking around at the rest of her family. Their faces would have better suited a funeral, solemn and somber. The twins shared a concerned glance, Victoria furrowing her brow at the open door before looking back at her work with a sigh.
"And?" Imelda did not have to ask who they were speaking of. Apparently, he had the bad habit of worming his way into everyone's thoughts.
"It's just… he's never late." Rosita's fingers drummed nervously on the workbench. "Not once, in all his visits."
"I hope everything's all right." Julio rubbed his mustache thoughtfully.
"Perhaps he decided not to come?" Imelda suggested. "And we're all the better for it, if you ask me."
"But why would he not come?" Julio protested. "Especially now that—" Victoria interrupted her father with a loud series of coughs, fanning her face with the leather. "Mija?! Are you all right?"
"What on earth?" Imelda reached over, plucking the needlework from her hands before rubbing her back soothingly. "Did you swallow wrong?" From her position, she could not see the imperative look Victoria shot the rest of the family, reminding them of their secret.
"I just—ahem—I choked on my breath, that's all. I'm better now." She wiped her eyes.
"Yes, well… what were you saying, Julio?"
"I said… erm… Why would Héctor not come? Especially now that you're working on his boots."
"Nonsense!" she tsked. "Do I need him here, breathing over my shoulder as I cut leather? Absolutely not!"
"Even so, I thought he might show up anyway," Rosita murmured. "Seeing that he hasn't missed a day, and you're here now, so—"
"All the more reason not to come," Imelda replied sharply. "Do you think I want to see him? No. I can do without seeing him for another hundred years. He's not worth my notice." Oscar slowly turned his eyes to Felipe, who rolled his own as she continued uninterrupted. "Silly, clumsy man! He's late? Of course! He was never any good to begin with! I don't see how—"
"Imelda, please." Felipe cleared his throat pointedly. "Don't waste time repeating things we've all heard before."
"We know how he is," Oscar added.
"Tch!" She turned her eyes back to her work. "I'll be much happier if he never shows his face around here again."
"And if you're happy, we're happy." Victoria nodded, a wry quirk to her smile. "That's all we want for you."
"That's right, Imelda," the twins chorused.
"Anything you want," Rosita summed up cheerfully. "We love you too much to see you sad." Taken aback, Imelda looked around the table before offering a rare, shy smile of her own.
"You're all very good children." They smiled back, no one daring to point out that Imelda didn't seem to know her own happiness.
The matter was dropped until after suppertime, when the moon was just rising over the farthest horizon. Julio stared out at the empty street, reluctant to close the door just in case their daily visitor came rushing in at the last minute. Héctor was not a man to change his passions so easily, to simply forget… or was he?
No, Julio decided, this must be some new scheme. But that knowledge wouldn't stop the others from worrying. Even the usually phlegmatic Victoria seemed ill at ease this night. But there was no sign of a ragged straw hat, no clatter of bare bones on the cobblestones. In the end, he was forced to shut and latch the door as he did any other night.
He waddled back into the dining room, which was more of a small foyer space than an actual room. It was only large enough to fit the dining table, eight mismatched chairs, and a corner shelf holding some candles, some bobbins, two books, and a faded ceramic pig.
Being one of the most affluent families in the Land of the Dead, the Riveras could have bought a mansion large enough to rival Ernesto de la Cruz's. They could have had fountains blowing the clearest, coldest water, festive lights flashing from every corner, a separate wing for each family member, a swimming pool in the shape of a shoe….
This, however, was not what they wanted.
Instead, Imelda had secured for them a modest two-story hacienda with high walled fences and a back garden. The front living space was the workshop, and instead of a formal parlor they used a refitted guest bedroom as a sitting room. The mudroom had been taken over by Rosita's herb garden, and another unused guest room was filled floor to ceiling with supplies. The twins used a walk-in closet to house their failed inventions. The kitchen was a living and work area combined, just large enough that all three women could stand abreast of one another.
Many other well-to-do businessmen would have felt stifled by the crowded space, the entire family piled on top of one another with just enough rooms between them. But this was the way the Riveras had lived, and this is what they knew. They were comfortable, and no one dreamed of a bigger house. When more family crossed the bridge, they could always clean out another room to make space.
"Did you see anything interesting out there?" Rosita asked hopefully.
"Only the moon," Julio answered, sitting in his spot between her and Victoria. "Is that new?" he asked his daughter, peering at her book. Victoria considered him a moment before flipping the book over to show a plainly stitched cover, embossed with the title Mi Vida, Mi Pérdida. "What on earth?"
"It's a romance." She turned the page, resettling her glasses on her nonexistent nose. "I borrowed it from Doña Leticia. Her family always leaves her bestsellers on the ofrenda. Hardback, never paperback."
"I won't say anything against Leticia—she's a good neighbor—but I still don't think you should bring that sort of trash into the house," Imelda sniffed, looking up from her needlepoint. "When I was your age, I would have been mortified to be caught dead with such a vulgar book."
"It's not as though I read them aloud, Mamá Imelda." Victoria considered the book with a frown. "This one isn't so bad. A man and a woman fall in love, but they have tuberculosis so it's not meant to be. It's even set in your time."
"My time?"
"1915."
"Bah. Even worse." Imelda plucked at an errant stitch. "How do these so-called authors know how we behaved in 1915? We certainly didn't go around talking about such things as that book does, that's for sure. Why, before marriage—?" She interrupted herself with a self-satisfied snort. "I knew nothing of such things. And I made sure your mother didn't know either, not until the night before her wedding."
"Was Papá Héctor a handsome young man in 1915?" Rosita asked cheerfully, pausing in her crossword puzzle.
"He… wasn't the ugliest man in Santa Cecilia," Imelda reluctantly acknowledged. "But he wasn't the handsomest man, either."
"Who was the handsomest? Ernesto de la Cruz?"
"I'm sure he would have said so, if you'd asked him. But I never thought he was all that great, either. His chin was too big." Imelda sewed steadily for a moment, lost in thought. "Fernando Garcia, maybe. I don't think I would have minded marrying a man like Fernando. But my best friend was in love with him, and he never tried to kiss me…."
"Ugh." Oscar made a face at the shoe in his hand. "We don't want to hear about who all tried to kiss you in 1915."
"Héctor was bad enough," Felipe agreed.
"Is that so? If memory serves, I distinctly recall two little boys who liked nothing more than to tell Mamá who I'd been seen with in the plaza that day. I also seem to recall the same two boys tried to hide in the tree every time Héctor came courting, just to see if he would kiss me while he was there!"
"Hm? Two boys?" Felipe turned to Oscar. "Do you remember two boys like that?"
"I don't, brother."
"Who are you talking about, Imelda?"
"I'm talking about twins who used to corner me in the hallway, teasing me until I had no choice but to threaten them with my shoes!"
"Surely not!" Rosita laughed. "I can't imagine Tío Oscar or Tío Felipe ever being that naughty!"
"Don't let them fool you: they were devils."
"Stop spreading lies, Imelda. We were Mamá's precious little angels."
"Lies!?" Imelda raised one finger, ready to launch into a tirade, but was interrupted at the last second by a knock at the door.
"Oh?" Rosita smothered the squeak in her throat. "Could it be?"
"I'll get it." Julio rose to his feet, clomping back through the workshop at double-speed.
"Good evening, Señor Rivera." Rosita visibly sagged as Julio stepped back to reveal a young skeleton dressed in modern clothing. It was one of their newest customers, the leader of an up-and-coming dance troupe. She held a box tightly in her hands. "I'm sorry to bother you this late, but I had to wait until practice was over."
"It's not too late," Imelda said as she took over, waving Julio aside with a welcoming smile. "What brings you here? Is there a problem with your order?"
"No, Señora—I mean, yes—I mean—" She held out the box pleadingly. "I only ordered seven pairs of shoes, but when I unpacked them this afternoon, I found there were eight pairs. You gave me too many; I didn't pay for this pair. I was afraid they might be part of another order, so I thought I'd bring them back." Imelda turned questioningly to the twins, who had been in charge of that particular order.
Oscar," said Felipe, fingering his mustache thoughtfully, "did you make four pairs of shoes?"
"Yes, I made four pairs and you three, like we said."
"No, no. I thought I was to make four pairs and you three."
"We made four pairs each." They nodded at one another, the mystery solved. "Sorry, Imelda."
"It's all right. Better to have one pair too many than one pair missing." Imelda turned back to the young skeleton. "Thank you for your honesty, but you can keep the shoes. It was our error, and you may need an extra pair someday. Besides, they wouldn't be of any use to us. We don't dance… often," she muttered, eyeing the workbench.
"Oh, but I couldn't possibly… are you sure?"
"Of course! Consider it a gift from one entrepreneur to another. It's not easy, starting your own business."
"I—thank you, Señora Rivera! Thank you so much!" Tears brimmed in the eternally young woman's eyes. "I'm so grateful!"
"It's no trouble, no trouble." Imelda backed through the door, waving her arm. "Won't you come in? You don't live in this neighborhood, do you? It must be a long trip home. Rest first."
"It is a long way, which is why I need to get going. Thank you, though. I do appreciate it…." She trailed off, suddenly bashful, clutching the box to her chest. "Erm… I hope I'm not being too forward, but…."
"Yes?"
"I was wondering if I might… take a photo… of your dress."
"My dress?" Imelda glanced at Rosita and Victoria. Both women shrugged, just as confused as she felt. "Whatever for?"
"I was at the Sunrise Spectacular… well, I think just about everyone was, but I paid extra for a VIP ticket. I wanted to see Frida's famous dancers." She shifted her weight nervously from one foot to the other. "You danced so beautifully, and La Llorona was—is—one of my favorite songs. My grandmother used to sing it to me." Imelda's eyes widened in shock, her mouth working wordlessly before she cleared her throat in dignified embarrassment.
"It's my favorite song, too."
"I was hoping to make a routine to it one day, based on how you danced onstage. I wanted to recreate your dress, too." She nodded to the purple cotton. "So… a photo? Please? If it's not too much to ask."
"Well… yes, I don't see why not." Imelda smoothed down her hair. "Bring a camera, and I will sit for a portrait." The woman blinked in confusion.
"But I have a camera on my phone." She shoved her hand into her pocket, emerging with a flat square. "Smile!" Imelda barely had time to obey before the girl clicked her thumb once, flipping the screen to show Imelda in the forefront with a very mature, noble expression. Behind her, the rest of the Rivera family looked on in awe.
"Yes… capturing life…." Imelda sighed. "Will that do?"
"Oh, yes! Thank you again!" The young woman seemed overjoyed as she put her phone back into her pocket. "I can never repay you, for the photo or the shoes!" She backed out of the gate, still gushing. "Thank you so much! Thank you!" Imelda waved and she took off, practically sprinting towards the spiraling lights of the tallest skyscrapers, where the modern dead lived.
"Just think of it, Mamá Imelda!" Rosita gasped, once she had shut the door. "You could be famous someday."
"I could be," Imelda agreed dryly. "But I'm no Frida Kahlo. I'd rather not have half a dozen of me running around onstage, if I have any say in the matter."
Imelda sat in front of her vanity mirror, staring at herself in its reflection. The bedroom window was open, the cool night air stirring her gauzy curtains. If she closed her eyes, she could almost hear the murmurs of the twins in their bedroom next door, the soft steps of Victoria passing down the corridor, Julio cleaning up the workshop downstairs. The sounds of her family drowned out the chirruping of night alebrijes and the soft babble of water from the tiny fountain in the garden.
She let out a slow breath, unwinding the intricate hairstyle and allowing her dark curls to tumble down her spine. She spent extra time folding the purple ribbons, placing them neatly on the corner of the table for tomorrow's use. There was no need to rush; the relaxing pace was one of her favorite parts about her nightly routine.
Her routine in the afterlife was virtually the same as it had been in life, modeled after the long-gone days of watching her mother prepare for bed. Like most girls, she had loved nothing more than when her mother would let her take a seat at her own seemingly enormous mirror, brushing out her hair with gentle, calloused hands and showing her how to braid it for the night. While that memory alone was good, shining in its nostalgia, she more easily recalled the love she felt when she performed the same routine with her own daughter many years later.
First the cold cream, in a small jar beside the combs. While it was true that she had no skin to moisturize, the cold cream still worked magic on her weary bones. It cleaned away the cosmetics and the day's grime, leaving her bones bright and shiny in the lamplight. She spread on a thin layer, concealing the colorful markings on her face so that she was nothing but white skull and brown eyes. Then a wet cloth, rubbing in gentle circles until everything gleamed. Prim and proper, neat and orderly.
Just the way she liked it.
Picking up the soft-bristled brush, she ran it through her tresses before braiding them, eyeballing the streaks of gray near her temples. She was not ashamed of them; they were marks of wisdom and experience. Medals, one might say, a visual reward for earning her rightful place as head of the family. Years of stress and strife, the pain of a mortal coil….
What did age matter, anyway? It didn't matter at all, at least not in this world. Children often outlived their parents, especially in the age of modern medicine. Her beloved Coco was well past her own age at death, but that did not mean Coco was no longer her daughter. When she came to the Land of the Dead, Imelda would love the old woman just as much as she had loved the child.
And then there was Héctor. They had died many decades apart; he had been a young man, a child, and she was an old woman. But that didn't seem to make much of a difference to either of them. She saw him as Héctor, not an age, and she knew that he saw her in the same way, as Imelda. It was a strange mindset to someone from the living world, perhaps, but it just made sense somehow, in the way that many things make sense after death.
The breeze picked up and she walked to the open window, reaching up to close the heavy glass panes. She paused, looking out into the night. The light from her bedroom spilled across the back garden, from the tiny courtyard with grass growing in the cobblestones to the little fountain that bubbled against the smooth stones. A tall yellow pine, reminiscent of the one that had grown in the garden of her childhood home, swayed in the wind. Beneath it, the stone bench was cast into shadow, but she knew that the descendants of Rosita's many herbs and flowers grew there, unchecked by nature.
Imelda looked over the wall to the city, spreading high enough that it made her dizzy to stare at it for too long. Her neighborhood was thankfully quiet, being mostly cramped shops and houses that faced away from the main streets. It was not that different from the neighborhood where the living Riveras could be found. But quiet streets could not silence the thump-thump of music somewhere in the distance; nor could it smother the light of the city's livelier quarters from filtering down.
There was a sense of separation, though; the neighborhood was an island, one in a great sea of the dead. Serene, peaceful, even with the mainland in sight.
Perhaps the breeze is not too cold, she thought, wrapping the thin dressing gown closer around her as she leaned against the windowpane. She closed her eyes, pulling the heavy braid over her shoulder and running her fingers over it slowly. The ceaseless bass stereo was a heartbeat, a slow, steady temp. If she concentrated, she could almost hear the melody….
Twang!
Imelda jolted in alarm as something sailed past her skull, skittering across the tiles of the bedroom floor before skidding to a stop somewhere behind her. She spun on her heel, scanning the room for the culprit. Sometimes a bird alebrije would mistakenly fly through the window, but that—whatever it was—was no bird.
She finally found it beneath the dressing table, crammed into a corner where the wall had stopped its impromptu flight. Feeling bold, she reached beneath the table and fished it out into the open, holding it by the… radius. It was an arm, a forearm… a suspiciously familiar forearm, with old duct tape wound around the bone.
"Why am I not surprised?" she muttered. Tied to the arm, perpendicular to the bone itself, were three fresh flowers. The twine used to secure them to the bone was loose enough that she was able to pull them out by the stems, holding them to the light. Five soft, dark purple petals with pink-plum flesh, a tiny yellow circle at the apex. Purple laelieas.
What's your favorite flower?
Imelda raced to the window, leaning out as far as she dared to see if she could spot him in the garden below. That's where he had to be, right? But she could see nothing beyond the square of light illuminating the fountain. The night was just as quiet as before. Nothing stirred, nothing breathed.
She snarled her frustration, taking the arm and slinging it back into the night. There was a faint splash as it landed in the fountain.
"I hope the rest of you falls in as well, you… you coward!" she shouted, slamming the window shut and throwing the curtains over the glass. She crawled into bed and was just about to extinguish the lamp when she realized she still held the flowers in her hand. It was a disgrace of a bouquet: tiny, pitiable. It would not take long for them to wilt, surely. Even so… they were her favorite flowers.
Ninety years later, and he still remembers… the fool.
She placed them on the bedside table with a sigh before turning off the lamp and falling to the pillow. The city lights flickered through the gauzy curtains, shadows dancing on the petals. Imelda closed her eyes firmly, drawing the blanket to her chin. The house settled around her, old pipes and creaking foundations, the muffled sounds of her family as they turned in for the night.
Outside, the chorusing insects drowned the throbbing bass, and the softer curses of the man attempting to fish his arm out of a garden fountain without falling in.