She thinks maybe in some families there were, but as for hers? She shakes her head: "No. It's whatever you want to share, whatever's important enough to you to remember. Mama used to take each picture from its place on the wall one by one, and as she arranged them on the ofrenda, she'd tell me the story that went with it."
Which is not the story she'd like to tell about Reyna Espinosa, but she thinks her mother would approve that it's her legacy now anyway. They don't have pictures. Even if Rosita had had time to grab them out of her apartment in Dallas, she would have lost them a dozen times along the way from Texas to Alexandria, where she again has walls to hang portraits on - or here, if she had a mind to do so.
She presses her lips together a moment, wiping her palms down her thighs where she's knelt as she thinks, sifting through the years to find the thread to start.
"My favorite was tío Humberto. He had his mule with him, Guapo, his back piled high with packs and his tongue hanging out around the bit, like this." As a child she'd mimic the animal's face with her own, and her mother would do the same, and they'd laugh. Rosita sticks her tongue out now and smiles a moment after. "They worked for the miller in the town, carrying goods to customers and carrying back whatever was traded for them. There were chickens running between Guapo's hooves, and Humberto was trying to look serious but there was always mischief behind his eyes."
no subject
Which is not the story she'd like to tell about Reyna Espinosa, but she thinks her mother would approve that it's her legacy now anyway. They don't have pictures. Even if Rosita had had time to grab them out of her apartment in Dallas, she would have lost them a dozen times along the way from Texas to Alexandria, where she again has walls to hang portraits on - or here, if she had a mind to do so.
She presses her lips together a moment, wiping her palms down her thighs where she's knelt as she thinks, sifting through the years to find the thread to start.
"My favorite was tío Humberto. He had his mule with him, Guapo, his back piled high with packs and his tongue hanging out around the bit, like this." As a child she'd mimic the animal's face with her own, and her mother would do the same, and they'd laugh. Rosita sticks her tongue out now and smiles a moment after. "They worked for the miller in the town, carrying goods to customers and carrying back whatever was traded for them. There were chickens running between Guapo's hooves, and Humberto was trying to look serious but there was always mischief behind his eyes."