The statue of Archangel Michael gleamed in the late afternoon, guarding the entrance to the church. Behind it, in the cemetery, families sat on picnic blankets next to gravesites, eating the favorite food of their loved ones: mounds of fruits, peanuts, plates of turkey mole, stacks of tortillas and Day of the Dead breads called pan de muerto. Others were still clearing out tombs and setting up ofrendas, decorative altars adorned with candles, incense, marigolds, sugar skulls, and bright red cockscomb flowers. Toys, water, hot cocoa, and candies were spread out for the angelitos, while shots of mezcal, tequila, and cigarettes were offered to the adult spirits. Everywhere, people were eating, drinking, playing cards or reminiscing.
Damian stood at the foot of MaMaLu’s grave. The new tombstone was simple, not too big or ornate, exactly as she would have wanted it. A sense of peace settled over him as he read the inscription. He had made sure her prisoner number was removed. She was not a thief, and shouldn’t be remembered as such. Damian was never able to determine the exact day she passed away, but her date of death was now filled in. He had chosen the day he had last heard her singing, in the shade of the trees across from Valdemoros.
“Who brought the candles and flowers?” asked Rafael.
MaMaLu’s grave was decorated with colorful paper garlands and pillars of candles flickering in glass jars. In the center was a papier maché skull on a bed of bright marigolds.
“Hey, Bandido!” Damian felt someone tugging his sleeve.
“Sierra!” He grinned and scooped her up.
She was wearing jeans, a black hoodie, and sneakers with neon green laces.
“Please put me down,” she said, rather solemnly, as if he had just embarrassed the crap out of her.
“Of course.” Damian obliged.
“Finally, a girl you actually listen to,” said Rafael.
“Who are you?” Sierra squinted up at him.
Damian introduced them, before turning to Sierra. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m here with my mama.” She pointed to someone in the crowd.
“I thought your mama was in prison. Is she out now?”
Sierra scratched her head.
“You said she was in Valdemoros.”
“She works there, silly.”
“So you don’t live there . . . with her?”
“Live in Valdemoros?” Sierra laughed.
“But your hair. The lice. I thought you got it from the prison.”
“That’s coz I go there with her sometimes. And sometimes I forget what she tells me. I let one of the girls there braid my hair, and I did hers, and we shared the same comb.”
Damian had not realized just how much his misplaced assumptions about Sierra had affected him, until he felt the weight lift off his shoulders. The little nut-busting girl had managed to worm her way into his heart.
“I still have some graves to decorate.” She lifted up the two buckets she was holding. “My grandma’s and grandpa’s. Want to help?”
“You two go ahead,” said Rafael. “I’ll wait here.”
Damian let Sierra drag him through the crowd, to another grave on the far side of the cemetery. The plots were bigger and marked with tall slabs of marble and smooth granite. Definitely not the prison lot.
“Here,” said Sierra. She started wiping the dust off the marker and gave him the buckets. “You do the flowers and other stuff.”
“Yes, boss,” said Damian, smiling as he arranged marigolds on the grave.
He reached into the other bucket and pulled out some candles. And a papier maché skull much like the one he’d seen on MaMaLu’s grave.
“They must sell a lot of these,” he said, holding it up.
“I made that,” said Sierra, stepping back from the tombstone.
In Loving Memory of Adriana Nina Sedgewick, it read.
Damian dropped the skull he was holding. “Adriana . . . Sedgewick.” His head was spinning so hard, he could barely speak.
“She’s my mama’s mother. My dad’s mother is buried on the other side. I made her a paper skull too. And this is my grandpa.” Sierra moved to the adjacent grave. It was newer and didn’t need as much cleaning.
Damian didn’t see anything beyond the name carved in stone:
Warren Henderson Sedgewick.