Marigolds

It wasn’t the feral cats or the stink of garbage that woke me up. It wasn’t even the grubby kids poking me and whispering to each other. It was the wind blowing pollen and flower petals over my face. I sat up so quickly the kids nearly fell over. They start speaking in Spanish so fast I can only catch every other word. I grunt and get to my feet, then immediately regret it as I nearly pass out from the head rush.

The kids scamper in front of me, still speaking so rapidly I can’t understand.

“Hey! Stop, stop it. Where am I?” They seem to understand, so I guess I speak Spanish. The kids look at me a little funny then one says,

“In la Ciudad de Mexico.” That takes me a few seconds to process. The kids go back to chattering, pulling at my hand trying to get my attention. I ignore them and stumble towards the street. I look down and realize one of my shoes is gone. I emerge onto the street, which is crowded with market stalls, bikes, vespas, mothers shouting at their children, men gossiping and calling out their wares, women laughing.

The street is covered in flower petals, golden flower petals. They’re being blown all around the street, scattering and swirling. I shakily begin walking down the street. The wind blows my hair into my face. I reach up and feel it, it’s thick and dark. It suddenly occurs to me, I have no idea what I look like. This should probably scare me more than it does. I move to a stall and look in the reflection of a shiny pot.

I certainly look like I belong here; dark eyes, tan skin, long dark hair that if it wasn’t so dirty would be rather pretty. I’m wearing a white linen dress, which is muddy thanks to the alleyway.

But...how did I…

I rack my brains, Who am I?

The name Elena comes to mind. After a few seconds I’m sure it’s mine. If I have any other names, they aren’t presenting themselves. Next, I try to recall where I was before.

Nothing.

More flower petals smack against my face as I move down the street, the two kids still following at a distance. No one pays me much attention. Everywhere I look there are flowers, burned out candles in windows, colorful banners strung everywhere. I pause before a threshold and see a table made into an altar, covered in a linen cloth laden with fruit, cakes, flowers, a few candles still guttering. At the top, there are several black and white photographs.

An ofrenda.

It seems so familiar and therefore comforting.

Behind me, a few streets down, I hear the chiming of church bells. That sound...yes I remember that sound. I must live near here. Or something. I turn the corner and move towards the sound.

The church is nothing spectacular, just a red stone building two stories high with a single stained glass window I somehow know depicts the last supper. I start towards the heavy wooden doors, but something else catches my attention. The cemetery.

I go through the gate and I suddenly know exactly what day it is. November 3, the day after Dia de los Muertos. All the graves are covered in golden flowers, slightly wilted. The food offerings are just beginning to attract flies. A few reverents still kneel by the grave markers, praying for their ancestors. Monarch butterflies flit through the air.

My feet seem to move without my direction. I pass by grave after grave until I stop a few yards from a woman kneeling by a mound of earth covered in marigolds, the remains of ten candles scattered around it. The woman is older, her graying hair braided tightly, holding her rosary between folded hands, lips murmuring a prayer.

I see over her shoulder, at the head of the grave, a framed picture.

A framed picture of me.

I feel my heart skip several beats, and now I hear the words of the woman.

“Bless my darling Elena, may she fly on the wings of the butterfly.”

Heart fluttering in my chest, I look at the picture again. A monarch lands on my shoulder, and another on my hand. Part of me wants her to turn around, the rest of me is terrified. It was impossible. Finally, I say, timidly,

“Mama?”

The woman turns, the beads fall from her hands. We stare at one another, she raises her hand to her mouth, trembling.

The butterflies flap their wings and float away, dancing with the drifting marigolds in the breeze.