Tía Nena and the white flower
Sunday night my tía Nena came to me in a dream. She passed in March. She was sitting behind me on the porch steps of her old house in Hialeah, braiding my hair the way she did when I was little: too tight, and with a lot of commentary.
When she finished, she tucked a white flower into the braid and said, 'Don't forget me on Mondays.'
I don't forget my eggun on Mondays. But I've been rushing, I'll admit it. So yesterday I took my time. Fresh water, a white rose just for her, her name said out loud and slowly. Some of what that dream means I'll take to my godmother, and that part stays in the room. The braid and the flower felt fine to share. She'd want people to know she still fixes my hair.
Monday. White flowers and a clear glass of cool water for my eggun, a cafecito poured the way my abuelo liked it (far too sweet), and their names said out loud. Five minutes. It anchors the whole week.
Café con leche at 3am
Monday I refreshed the flowers and the water glasses on my bóveda for my eggun, like every Monday. White carnations this time, because they were on sale and Abuela Cuca would have approved of the bargain.
Woke at 3am to the smell of café con leche. Strong, sweet, scalded milk, exactly how she made it, with the pinch of salt nobody believed was in there. Nobody in my apartment drinks coffee after noon. The kitchen was dark and cold.
I didn't go looking for anything. I just said, 'Bendición, Abuela,' and went back to sleep smiling. This morning I put a little cup of café on the bóveda for her. Sweet, scalded, with the pinch of salt.