Isabel

This is a story about an old man who is celebrating Dia de los Muertos with his wife. They are mourning the loss of their child, Isabel.

The neighborhood was buzzing with preparations for Dia de Los Muertos as I slowly made my way down the bustling street. I was heading to the market to pick up the ingredients mi querida needed for the pan de muerto that she would be making for the celebration. Children rushed past my legs, laughing as they chased each other down the street. When I reach the booth, I close my old eyes and listen to the sounds around me as I wait for the owner to finish helping a young lady. Festive music sings and dances its way down the street, tangling with the voices of the busy crowd. I pay for the ingredients and begin the long walk back to my small brick house where mi querida was waiting for me. The sun cast long shadows as I walked, casting warped images of an old man slowly making his way home onto the gravel.

When I entered my house, I paused in the doorway to catch my breath. Was walking home always this hard? My wife was elbow-deep in dough as I dropped the groceries onto the counter with a thud. She turned with a smile and motioned for me to come over to give her a kiss. “Thank you for picking up the remaining ingredients I needed for the recipe,” she started before a look of concern crossed her face. “Do you feel ok mi amor? You don’t look well. Go lie down, I’ll bring you some food later.” I opened my mouth to disagree and tell her that I felt fine, but my legs had other ideas as I began to slowly make my way to my bedroom down the hall. It took only seconds of laying there before I fell into a deep sleep.  

I awoke the next day to the sounds of music and celebration. Voices walked throughout my house, visiting and conversing and baking. I ease myself from my bed and change before going out to help my wife carry the food and decorate to our daughter's final resting place.

Making our way through town with a small wagon was rough to say the least. Everyone has the same idea today, to go to their loved ones graves, and the amount of wagons in the street was beyond what the streets could hold. We were bringing flowers and candy and food, enough for three, me, my wife and our baby. Her favorite foods and candies, some paints and brushes because she loved to paint oh-so-much.

We spent the entire day there, cleaning and decorating her grave with cempasúchil and paintings of us as a family. Other families came and paid tribute to her, and we too went to visit the graves of some others in our community to pay our respects. Our annual tradition is to stay the night at the grave site, but this year mi querida thought that it wouldn’t be a very good idea because of my health. I don’t think staying the night there would cause any problems, but she is insistent on my staying home, so when the sun began to set behind the mountains, we said our final goodbye and started to make the walk home. The sun splashed golds and purples and pinks onto the sky and stretched long shadows onto the road we traveled on.

Once we returned home, we set up another altar for our daughter in the kitchen, and prepared for bed. This was the first time in many years that we didn’t spend the night camped at her gravesite and the remainder of the evening, although we were still celebrating, had an air of melancholy.

    I awoke with a jolt at the dead of night. A faint blue glow came from our hallway, so I eased myself out of bed to go investigate. My feet moved on their own accord, padding silently down the hall. Now wide awake, I turn the corner into the kitchen to find myself face-to-face with my Isabel, my daughter that had long ago passed. I choked on a sob, shocked to see my baby girl again. She watched me with sad eyes and set the picture of our small family back down on the altar before drifting toward the door, her blueish dress hovering centimeters above the ground. Glowing blue mist trailed off her arm as she motioned to me to follow her out the door, giving me a reassuring smile before she floated through the door. I grab my jacket and hat as I hurried to catch up to her.

She stayed a great distance ahead of me, staying within my sight and stopping to make sure I was still following her. Her once thick black hair was now a dark blue, almost black, but not truly. It was twisted into a braid that hung down her back, breaking up the light blue of her play dress. I quickened my pace to catch up to her, relying heavily on my cane to carry most of my weight.

I finally caught up to her at the edge of town, at the entrance to the cemetery. I stopped beside her, not sure what to do. I looked down at her, only to find her looking up at me with her large eyes. No longer were they the golden brown they were but now they glowed white-blue, so very light. Still watching me, she gently placed her palm on the large cement arch that marked the entrance of the final resting place of so many families. Light began to spread from her hand, twisting up the arch and flowing through the veins carved throughout the cement. It traced the arch, then it began moving through the rest of the fence. The light was so many colors, blues and greens and pinks and oranges and purples and yellows and whites. It was of all hues, pale and bright, pastel and bold. After completely circling the cemetery fence in light, it began to race down the walls, through the veins carved there, into the plant life, the ivy on the fences, the bushes and the trees. The flowers left on the graves shriveled completely, only to ignite with a fire of glowing light, dancing with millions of colors. Any people that were there sleeping with their loved ones were gone now, and the light began tracing over the graves and altars the families had built for their loved ones.

I looked at my Isabel, my sweet Isabel, unsure what I was seeing. She didn’t look at me, and instead was completely focused on the center of the cemetery, as if she was waiting for something. Then the earth began to quake under my feet. My legs collapsed beneath me, but I didn’t bother to try to stand. The ground of the cemetery had cracked, splitting it in fourths. The ground shoved apart, moving away from how it should be, expanding the cemetery. The top of a building began to show through the hole created, and then ghosts began to fill the graveyard. The strange building continued to rise, filling in the gaping hole and glowing like the rest of the cemetery. As it came close to showing the contents of the building, the glow became unbearable and I was forced to look away.

When the light finally diminished, my breath was stolen from my lungs. The graveyard was full of ghosts, of glowing plants and food, of a huge gazebo that was never there before.

Seated in a throne in the gazebo was a lady. A Queen. She had thick white hair and eyes that were as white as pure marble. On top of her head sat a crown of orange and red and purple and yellow and black flowers, with black lace and crows feathers. Black wire came to a point between her eyes, the complex design filled with jewels of all colors. Her face was skeletal, with white skin and black shadows. Her eyes were decorated with pink and orange and black pigments, and her lips were colored a pure red. The top of dress looked to be made of skin, as if she was made of bone herself. The bottom of her dress was made of black mist and lace, but there was no way to see where the skin ended and the lace began.

She beckoned me forward. I felt warm hands on my arms, helping me up, and when I looked down, it was my Isabel; she handed me my cane and motioned to the path that had formed from the entrance to the Queen, a path lined by bones glowing internally.  A smile slid onto the face of the Queen, as she watched me make my way down the path. I was about a quarter of the way down the path when I heard my name being called. I turned around to find mi querida standing at the arch, calling for me, tears streaming down her face. I wanted to go to her, to tell her to stop crying, that it was ok, that she needn’t worry about me but my feet wouldn’t work right. I looked back at her and realized that I was crying too, thought that I didn’t know why I was here, that I should be home with her, waking up tomorrow to continue the celebration. I felt a small hand slip into my own, warmth filling my chilled bones. I looked down at my little Isabel, her smiling eyes and sweet smile and took another step forward towards the Queen of the Dead.

Author's Note

Feel back is welcome! I tried to stay true to the traditions of Dia de los Muertos, but because my family personally does not celebrate it there may be mistakes here and there.