Her eyes are the color of amber. Honey brown, deep and warm and full of light. All I’ve ever wanted was to have bright eyes like her.

“¿Qué pasó, mijo?”

She’s wearing the bracelet I made her, out of old scraps of cowhide I stole from the market. She has her good shoes on, the blue flats with gold trim flowers. She saves those for special occasions. 

She is not dressed in her housekeeping uniform, but a white flowing dress that is cinched at the waist. There are moth-eaten holes and a tear across the shoulder, but she wears it with such grace that it could be called new fashion.

“Te ves hermosa, mamá.”

She smiles. Her eyes fill up with warmth. And I don’t feel the sun on my face, not like she does. But this warmth is brighter. The love of my mother.

“You think?” She asks, in native Aril. In the blink of an eye, the sky is overcast. A chill begins to fester in the pit of my stomach. I am not afraid of the dark. But I am afraid of what it means.

A mourning dove lands on a nearby tree, begins to sing its song of grief.

“He’s coming home soon,” I whisper in English. She doesn’t know much English, not yet, but she knows what those words mean. Her smile doesn’t waver.

“Shh, Luz. Look how lovely it is outside,” she says in Aril again.

“What’s the special occasion, mamá?”

“Who says there’s a special occasion?”

“Then why are you all dressed up?”

“Does a woman need a reason to feel beautiful?”

“You are beautiful, Mom. Always.”

Her hand caresses the side of my face. I don’t let myself cry, though–for whatever reason–I want to.

“Ok, ok, you caught me,” she hums. “Today is the day I’m going to run away. And I’m taking you and Vincent with me.”

“Run away?” My heart skips in my chest. “Where?”

“Who knows? Anywhere, anywhere but Elis. How does that sound? We’ll get that cake you really like as celebration, yeah? Red velvet.”

But that tug in my chest weighs heavier on my bones. Tears gather at my lashes. I’m forgetting something. I’m forgetting a lot of things.

My mother never bought this dress. Even at the second-hand store it was too expensive.

“You aren’t going to run away, mamá.”

She turns, a look of curiosity on her face.

“And why not, mijo?”

“Because you haven’t had Neriah yet.”

“Neriah?” She asks, her head cocking slightly in question. “Who is that?”

“Why did you tell me to buy that red velvet cake before I left for school that day? It wasn't even my birthday.”

“What day?”

“The day you died,” I say, in English. Her eyebrows furrow as she tries to translate in her head. She does not understand. “Did you know what was coming?”

“I do not understand, Luz. Oh cariño, ¿Por qué estás tan triste?”

“Porque,” I say, unable to catch the tear that slips through. It rolls down my cheek, splatters against the back of my hand. “Estás muerto.”

“Don’t be silly, Alexis. How can I be dead if we’re both here, in the sun, together?”

I want to believe her, I do. But it’s all overcast now. The sun is no longer out. We are two broken-winged mourning doves, hiding from the impending onslaught of rain. Father is always almost home. Vincent is always still at school. Neriah is always unborn. And I am always just a child, useless and afraid.

My mother should have bought that dress. She would have looked beautiful in it. I would have buried her in it. Or maybe I wouldn’t have had to. Maybe she would have worn it on the night we all ran away.

“Because,” I say, in barely a whisper. “I am dead too.”

My mother leans her head back, peers at the sliver of sun through a lour of clouds. She blinks. Her eyes are a honeyed amber. Bright. My eyes are more like my father’s. Dark and cold.

She tilts her head more to face me. Her lips curl up with playfulness.

“¿Qué pasó, mijo?”

I wish I knew. But I’m starting to forget. I forget more each time.

Each time… what? What happened? I’m forgetting. What am I forgetting?

My mother is wearing her good shoes, the blue flats with gold trim flowers. She is wrapped in a flowing white dress, cinched at the waist in silk ribbon. She looks like an angel.

“Te ves hermosa, mamá.”

She smiles.

***