The Butterfly’s Daughter by Mary Alice, Monroe Page B

a dawning sun. Leaves scattered in a sudden gust of cool wind and an empty Coke can rolled noisily down the street. She loved this time of year with the changing colors and the scent of ripeness in the air. In Wisconsin, winters were too harsh and summers too hot. It was fall that stoked nostalgia and prompted reflection. She sighed with the heaviness of all the changes she’d suffered in the past week. She wondered whether, from this year on, she’d come to cherish this season as the one that had changed her life, or hate this season and always associate it with death.
    Luz tucked the plain cardboard box that held her grand-mother’s ashes securely under her arm. It was still hard for her to believe that all the bones, flesh, contours, colors—everything that she recognized as her grandmother—was in a box this small. Part of her felt that nothing meaningful of her grandmother was here. Her soul was gone.
    And yet . . . Luz moved one hand to stroke the top once, twice. In a strange, indefinable way, she sensed Abuela’s spirit still lingered here, with her ashes.
    The Volkswagen was parked in its usual spot at the curb. Thankfully, the enormous red sedan that had wedged her in like a sardine had left, so there was plenty of room for her to load the trunk. She nestled the box securely in the backseat with her pillow.
    She brought only one suitcase, filled with a few pairs of jeans, some sweaters, heavy socks for hiking the mountain, a few sundresses, and her rain slicker. She was wearing her brown corduroy jacket. At the last minute she’d tossed in the despised black dress and shoes that she’d bought for Abuela’s funeral, just in case. In the front seat she laid out in arm’s reach her grandmother’s maps of Mexico and the United States with the route highlighted in yellow, Abuela’s address book, bottles of water, a bag of mixed nuts, and her cell phone. Finally, she dug into her jacket pocket and pulled out Abuela’s rosary beads. She kissed the crucifix, then hung the beads on the rearview mirror.
    All was ready. She took a deep breath, feeling excitement bubbling in her veins. She looked down the street, tapping her foot. Where was Sully?
    A few minutes later she saw the familiar silver pickup truck round the corner and roar up her quiet, dimly lit street. Thetires skidded to a halt as Sully maneuvered it into the only open spot, conveniently in front of her. The bed of the truck was sticking conspicuously into the street as he leaped out. When she’d told him two days earlier of her plan to drive to Texas he’d been shocked first, angry second, and finally, when he listened and understood her reasons, supportive. His tousled hair, stubbled cheek, and sleep-rimmed eyes spoke of the night they’d had. They’d spent most of the night talking, making love, then talking some more. She breathed deep, remembering the feel of his skin against hers, the sound of his voice husky with sleep against her ear.
    â€œLuz, think again. Just wait till I can go with you,” he had told her. “Maybe next month. Two at the latest.”
    Luz had known in that moment how her grandmother must have felt when Luz had suggested they wait till spring. There wasn’t any concrete reason she could offer Sully why next month was too late.
    â€œI have to leave now, Sully. I know it sounds crazy, but it makes sense to me.” She took a deep breath, looking directly into his eyes. “In Mexico on the Day of the Dead the families gather to greet the monarchs when they return to our village. You see, we believe that the monarchs are the spirits of our recently departed.”
    Sully’s expression shifted to reflect his appreciation of her use of the word we .
    â€œDo you remember what I told you about the butterfly that emerged after Abuela died?” Luz asked him. “The night before I prayed to Abuela to give me a sign of what I should do. I