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Showing posts from October, 2012

A Dollar for Santa Muerte

It has been almost a year since you left.

I heard a song from Mexico the other day, and for a second I thought it was you, plucking out Spanish guitar songs in the living room. I heard the song while I stood in the kitchen, slicing bread, the bread you taught my husband to bake, from the cookbook you gave me for Christmas.

I stood in the kitchen, where so many evenings after I gave birth, I stood and cried with my baby, who could not be consoled when I set her down so I could make something to eat, not until you came home from work in your starchy white shirt smelling like fried fish and you picked her up and she stopped crying and smiled, so happy to see your beat-up face and your mohawk and those hoops in your ears.


My heart jumps every time I see my husband wearing that old head scarf you left, with the picture of Santa Muerte. I never understood Santa Muerte so well as I do now, I think.

The first time I saw her was in Mexico, way deep in the bowels of the market, in an aisle fu…