Mama frowned and said, “You know, my camellias are disappearing” People who believe in magic can see that magic in the trickling waters of a creek; or at least I can. I began to love going down to the creek in the woods behind our home when I was six-and-a-half. My parents usually took me, but when I turned seven, I was independent enough to go alone. By then, the creek was always washing things up onto the banks, especially beautiful sparkling rocks. It was almost like it was giving me gifts. Often my brother, Peter, and I would run down to the creek with my dog, Sizzles, running in front of us, barking at squirrels. When we arrived, we would kick off our shoes and splash around in the cool rushing water. After it rains, the creek is a huge treacherous river, and my parents don’t let me go down there very often. It was a sunny spring Saturday morning. After breakfast, I decided that I was going to spend a while at the creek. I called, “Mama! I’m going down to the creek.” “OK, but first let me show you something!” she called back. I ran into the grassy green garden and she held up the head of a gorgeous pink camellia. Mama loves flowers. I love them too, but I don’t think anyone loves them as much as she does. She is a pretty famous person in the town for grafting camellias. “It’s beautiful.” I smiled at it. “It’s called Pink Perfection,” she returned happily. I could see why. I examined the perfect layered petals on the flower, smiling. Unexpectedly, Mama frowned and said, “You know, my camellias are disappearing. It could be deer, but I have the feeling that somebody is picking them.” I frowned too and wondered, What could be happening to them? Then I said, “Well, I’ll go now, and I’ll see you soon.” As I left the yard and headed towards the forest, I heard a familiar voice chasing me. “Where are you going, Lindsey?” It was Peter. “The creek.” “I want to come.” I shrugged and said, “Well, come!” He nodded and jogged after me. A stick cracked in half as I trampled it with Sizzles at my heels. She wagged her tail and jumped over a log, forging ahead of Peter and me. We knew the woods well by now, the three of us. When we reached the creek, I yanked off my red boots and jumped off of a muddy hill. Sizzles leapt back to avoid me and I laughed, standing in the cool rushing water. Then I saw her, a girl with long dark curls, standing in the creek about twenty yards away. She had brown eyes too, and, most importantly, she had spun a crown of flowers that perched in her hair. It was spun with clovers, wildflowers, and tiny violets, but also an assortment of roses and perfect pink layered camellias. When I took a step in her direction, she sprinted out of the creek, grabbing a pair of brown boots on the ground. Sizzles barked and growled, making to run across the creek, but I grabbed her collar. “No, Sizzie!” I exclaimed. “Bad dog.” “What?” Peter asked. “Someone… someone was over there.” I waded across the creek as Peter watched me with looks of suspicion and question on his face. The girl was gone, but there on the sand lay a single Pink Perfection camellia. * * * All through the school week she was in the back of my mind. When I wasn’t busy with my work, like at recess, my mind floated to that topic. On Wednesday, a few of my friends—Katie, Eloise, and Jenny—asked if I wanted to play with them. Thinking I had spent too long with my mind on this mysterious figure, I joined in their game. “Did you see those Mexicans in the grocery store?” Eloise asked as we snapped sticks off of branches to make wands. “Oh, yeah,” Jenny replied, sneering. “And they’ve got two girls, right? What do they think they’re doing here? Mexicans shouldn’t be taking Americans’ jobs, which is, like, definitely what they’re doing! They don’t belong here. I bet they’re illegal immigrants!” “If I knew their names, I’d totally turn them in!” Katie joined in. I frowned uncomfortably, remembering the image of the girl at the creek. Her tan skin and black hair fit the definition of Mexican. Was she? At last, Friday came. I had finally figured out who the girl was: a neighbor of ours who lived in an old small house in the woods. I had seen her in the grocery store before, but my family didn’t know her parents, or her, or her sister. When Saturday afternoon arrived, I yanked on my boots and jogged towards the woods to go to the creek. I was set to see the stranger again, foolishly bringing a pair of binoculars just to be sure. I let Peter come. He knew about the girl because I didn’t see the point of keeping it a secret alone, but I did make him promise to keep it one, just in case the girls wanted it that way. * * * We left Sizzles and went on our own, sweeping away the branches that clawed at our hair. At last, the rushing waters came into earshot, then sight, and there she was. She had brought her sister around too, and they sat by the water, cooling their feet and talking. Although I could hear their speaking quite clearly, not a word made sense. It was all in Spanish. I watched them from behind a live oak, and Peter peeked around the other side. The smaller girl was the one I had seen last week, and she still wore the crown of flowers in her hair. In fact, it was quite amazing. She had woven it together with the same materials, but what made my heart skip a
Diversity
The Fire of Diwali
The candleholders were simply beautiful A TRUE STORY Kamina grinned. Finally, it was Diwali! She had been longing for this day since she had come with her family to her grandparents’ house, and now she could hardly wait to start the celebration! Diwali was an Indian holiday, celebrating the return of the prince Ram. The story was that Ram had been exiled from the kingdom to battle demons, and when he came back, the people of India lit candles to guide him home. “Kamina, Kamina, where are you?” a familiar voice squealed. It was Liliana, or Lili, Kamina’s little sister. Kamina looked around for a place to hide. She spotted a tall tree, its branches easy to climb on but leafy enough so Liliana wouldn’t find her. Quickly, she grabbed the nearest branch and swung onto it, hooking her feet in the small crevices of the trunk. Soon, she had climbed on a branch where she could see Liliana but Liliana couldn’t see her. “Kaminaaaaa! Where are youuuuuuuuu?” Liliana’s voice echoed up to the branch where Kamina was hiding. Kamina stifled a laugh. “Kamina, if you don’t come down now, we will prepare for Diwali wiwout you!” Kamina couldn’t help but notice that Liliana had pronounced “without” wrong. As much as Kamina liked to annoy her little sister, she did not want her family to prepare for Diwali without her. So, she climbed down, trying to stay out of Liliana’s eyesight. But, as soon as her feet touched the ground, Liliana yelled, “Found you!” So much for sneaking away, thought Kamina, disappointed. But her disappointment flew away as she saw her dadi, the Indian word for grandma, taking out the boxes of beautiful candleholders. Her dadi handed her one of the boxes. “Here,” she said, as Kamina took the box from her hands with the greatest care. “Put these on the porch for me, will you?” she asked. “Of course, Dadi!” exclaimed Kamina, already heading towards the porch. Kamina carefully placed the box on the porch, then opened it to make sure none of the exquisite candleholders were broken. Kamina gasped. The candleholders were simply beautiful. Some were blue, some were green, some were so decorated they burned Kamina’s eyes! But if she was impressed by these, she was completely unprepared for the second box of candleholders her dadi gave her. Dashes of rainbow, sunlight, and joyful thoughts filled Kamina’s mind until she had to close the box. Skipping this time, she went back to her dadi to see if there were any more boxes to be carried. “No, there are no more boxes to carry,” said her dadi when Kamina asked. “But,” she continued, seeing Kamina’s disappointed face, “you can help me clean the kitchen.” “Uhhhh, no thanks, Dadi,” said Kamina. “No offense, but I’d rather be bored than clean the kitchen.” Her dadi smiled. “Off you go then!” she replied. Kamina ran into the house to find herself face-to-face with Liliana. Uh-oh, I better get out of here, thought Kamina, but it was too late. Kamina found herself playing dolls with Liliana. A few hours later, Kamina’s dadi called them in her room. “I have a surprise for you girls!” she exclaimed. When they entered Dadi’s room, the first things Kamina saw were two gorgeous Indian dresses. “Do you like them?” asked Dadi, watching the girls’ reaction. “Oh, Dadi, they’re wonderful!” exclaimed Kamina. “Are they for us?” Their dadi smiled. “Do you think I would order dresses that small for me?” Liliana squealed and picked up the smaller dress, one that was gold-embroidered with fiery-colored threads that shined. “Oh, thank you, Dadi!” she squeaked happily and ran to the bathroom to try on her new dress. Kamina stared at hers. It was the most beautiful piece of clothing she owned. Speechless, she carefully smoothed it out and hugged her dadi. Then she ran to the bathroom as well, to put it on. A few minutes later, Kamina was staring at herself in the mirror. She looked amazing. The dress was black with golden stones and threads that brought out the golden highlights in her brown hair. She loved it. Soon, the family was almost done preparing. The fireworks were out, the food was almost cooked, everybody was dressed up, and Kamina’s dadi had taken out her camera, ready to take photos. Liliana was bouncing in excitement. To calm Liliana down, Kamina asked her if she wanted to play hide-and-seek. Liliana agreed, and soon Kamina found herself looking around the house for her annoying little sister. “Found you!” she exclaimed, as Liliana came out of a closet. “Girls! Time to eat!” called Kamina’s mother. Sure enough, Kamina smelled the scent of spices floating through the air. She licked her lips and headed towards the dining room, where delicious-looking food awaited her. Kamina sat at the table, grabbed her fork, and dug in. After the feast (which was as delicious as it smelled), Kamina and her family went outside to light the candles. Kamina and Liliana weren’t allowed to light any candles but they were allowed to watch. As Kamina’s uncle lit the last candle, there was a terrible scream. Kamina turned around and saw Liliana leaning over a candle, her bangs on fire. Kamina, not knowing what to do, also screamed. Her mother was racing towards Liliana, but Kamina’s grandpa, her dada, had gotten there first. He used his bare hands to pat out the fire as quickly as possible. Her dada was soon joined by Kamina’s mom, and soon they extinguished the fire. Kamina’s heart was racing. She was trembling in terror. As much as she thought Liliana was annoying, she was her sister, and she loved her very much. Kamina watched as her mom raced into the house with a crying, screaming Liliana in her arms. Quickly, Kamina raced after her. When she got there, her mother was pouring water on Liliana’s forehead. Kamina stared at the sink, where lay blackened bangs, crumbling as she touched
Spirit of Love
“I miss you so much,” I whispered, staring at her photo Perhaps it’s because we never know what happens to us after dying that makes the topic of death so intriguing. I never thought much of death until I was five years old. I remember asking my mother why the whole city of Guadalupe celebrated my birthday for three days, from October thirty-first to November second. She told me they weren’t celebrating my birthday, but rather Dia de los Muertos (Day of the Dead), a holiday to remember all who were gone. I thought about death then but never understood what it really meant. The joyful celebrations every year brushed over the real truth of death. But, four years later, I discovered the true meaning of death. Two days after my ninth birthday on October thirty-first, my abuela (grandmother) died. “Happy birthday, Josephina!” My papa, mama, and hermana (sister) burst into my room, yelling joyfully. I pressed my fingers into my hazy eyes as a grin spread on my face. I had completely forgotten overnight that my birthday was today. No wonder I had gotten to sleep in so late. “My thirteen-year-old baby,” my mama cooed as she planted a kiss on top of my hair. “Not quite a baby anymore,” my papa grinned broadly, his uneven, jolly smile infectious to us all. “Mama and I made pan de muerto (a special bread for Day of the Dead) and we can eat it for breakfast!” my six-year-old hermana, Abril, belted out while bounding around the room. Abril pulled me out of bed in my pajamas, and we ran downstairs, where sure enough there was a large, dense, golden-brown loaf of sweet-smelling bread on the kitchen counter. I frowned, since it was shaped like a skull with orange candies for eyes. It was a reminder to me that since it was October thirty-first, we would not only be celebrating my birthday but remembering my abuela’s death. Mama came down and sliced thick pieces of the bread. Steam curled out of the bread as the knife sawed back and forth. Papa poured us glasses of creamy milk, and we took our breakfast out to the patio facing the street. The air was crisp and clean, yet the sky was such a clear blue it was like looking at the Gulf of Mexico on a sunny day. I closed my eyes and savored the warm bread crumbling in my mouth. “Oh this is great, Mama.” I smiled, opening my eyes. Mama hugged me again. I could see my neighbors in houses across the street setting up their altars. Again, I frowned, because I was reminded that I would have to set up an altar for my own abuela when I went back inside. “Honey, I know you don’t like remembering that Abuela died, but life sometimes shoves things at us that we don’t like. And the wisest thing we can do is rise to the opportunity to make things better.” “And how do we make things better?” I sighed. “We fill our lives with love, passion, laughter, beauty, and joy,” Mama said seriously. And I smiled. It was like her words breathed some life back into me. After finishing our bread and milk, we headed inside. Papa went to the market to buy food and supplies. In the meantime, Mama, Abril, and I started to set up Abuela’s altar. We laid out a beautiful lace runner on a wooden platform, the base of the altar. It was crocheted with ivory silk thread that was thin as a strand of angel hair. The coy faces of skulls danced up from it, adding zest to the delicate beauty. We then set out Abuela’s pearl necklace and arranged it around a beautiful black-and-white photograph of her. She had been fifty in the picture, yet she looked so young and serene. Her long, thick black hair cascaded over her left shoulder in a braid. Her eyes were a stunning shade of hazel, surrounded by long, dense lashes. She looked firm yet so inwardly kind, which reflected how she used to be all the time. I smiled as I touched the picture. Our memories of her still lived. Papa came home with bags full of goods. He took out some lovely purple, lavender-scented candles, along with five baskets packed with sweet marigolds. He brought crisp apples that were rich red in color, Abuela’s favorite food. He also brought in Abril’s favorite—colorful sugar skulls. We lined the altar with the candles and apples and put a sugar skull on either side of Abuela’s photograph. As a finishing touch, we sprinkled marigolds over everything and hung a picture of Our Lady of Guadalupe on the wall above the altar. It was simply beautiful. That night, we lit the candles on the altar. “I miss you so much,” I whispered, staring at her photo. “Abuela would be so proud of you. You’re growing up so fast.” Papa patted my shoulder. I smiled. I remembered what Mama said about filling your life with love. “Love still exists, even when a person dies,” I contemplated. “So I haven’t lost Abuela. Her spirit still lives.” “Very true,” Mama said quietly. “The altar is filled with our love combined. It is a gift to her spirit.” Eventually, around eleven, Abril dozed off. “You should get some sleep too, Josephina,” Mama said, stroking my hair. “I want to stay up. I just feel like talking with you in front of the altar. It’s relaxing.” Mama smiled. “And it’s my birthday, too!” I smiled sheepishly. Mama and I stayed up all night, talking seriously at some points and laughing until it hurt at others. I finally fell asleep at eight in the morning on November first. I woke up at seven in the evening when I heard Papa making dinner. “I slept through the whole day!” I wailed when I burst into the kitchen, where Mama and Papa were. “Most of the celebrating doesn’t start until
