The ofrenda

It was my first year having an ofrenda for my family.

Growing up as a white kid in Oarlito, you would see your friends' families have an ofrenda, or a shrine of some sort. But it wasn’t something we really had in our house. The closest thing we had was usually just a single story somebody would share after too many drinks, and maybe a trip to the cemetery every once in a while to leave some flowers.

Death just wasn’t something you acknowledged- even when it was all around, you know? It was like that weird collection of dolls your grandparents had at their house. Everybody knew it was there, hidden in the upstairs closet. But you just didn’t bring it up.

More questions than answers, really. 

But I had my own family now, and my wife had a whole background of culture to make up for my wonder-bread ass. And with my littles starting to get older, we figured an ofrenda was a good way to not only introduce them to their culture, but to show them that death was not something to fear.

It was a part of life, and we’d see our loved ones on the other side. They were always watching over us, and always talking sideways a little about us prolly, but in that way that only family who loves you can. 

So we headed out to the hardware store one afternoon. The plan was to pick up a shelf and a couple of small picture frames. My wife and I had some family members that we had lost and missed, but not more than we could count on one hand. We figured the shelf didn’t have to be anything too big. 

As we sat in the parking lot, getting the photos ready, you wouldn’t believe how excited the family was. We had already watched Coco with the littles like 5 times, and it seemed like they were getting the picture. My wife held a folder full of the photos, and you could feel a charge in the air. 

“And this is your Tio Roso. He used to always play with your mama and take her on adventures. When we would go to the swapmeet on Sundays, he always gave your mama an extra dollar for her domingo. That was money that we used to buy toys and things, babies. For many years, your mama even thought he was her dad!”

She passed the photos to the littles, their sticky gummy bear hands eager to meet a family member.

“His name was Turoso?”

“Tee-Yo Ro-so, baby. Tio Roso. Close though.”

I was going over the receipt, making sure everything added up. I usually just threw the receipt away, but I was trying to be better about money. Every cent counts, right?

Tap tap tap.

Having turned to face the kids, I hadn’t noticed the man approach the car. He was a thin guy, wearing a plaid shirt, and some faded jeans. He had his left hand pinned tightly to his chest, shriveled a bit in what looked like an accident from a long time ago.

I rolled my window down.

“Excuse me, sorry to bother you and your family. I'm actually with my family in that car over there,” he said, pointing across the parking lot. I glanced behind him, but didn’t really see where he was pointing.

“Our car ran out of gas, and we’re just trying to make it back home. Any chance you can spare a couple of bucks?”

Growing up, I had seen my parents do everything in their power to avoid situations like these. In our house, every invitation to help someone else almost felt like you were being robbed. It was a crabs-in-a-barrel mentality that I was proactively working to change in my own mind.

“Oh, um, I’m sorr-”

My wife knew me too well, and was already reaching over me to hand the man a $10 bill.

She made sure to brush her hand and the money across my face as she did. A love tap, if you will.

“Here you go. Ten cuidado.”

“Oh, gracias mija.”

The guy gave a small wave and turned to walk away, as I rolled my window up. My wife had already gone back to telling the little ones about ofrendas, but for some reason I couldn’t really look away from the guy.

“Right, babe?” my wife said, nudging my shoulder.

“Huh? I’m sorry, I was … nevermind. What's going on?”

“I was telling the kids about how even though sometimes our families leave, they’re never really gone. They like to do little things to let us know they’re watching us. Almost like saying ‘Hola!’” 

“Oh, yes! Definitely. For example, daddy’s grandma used to sell Avon- it’s like a company that sold makeup and other stuff. But she knew that daddy liked flavored chapsticks, and so she would buy them from her Avon books and give them to daddy. She would give me at least one every time I would see her. But what she didn’t know was that she had been giving daddy lip gloss- not chapstick. And so daddy would use them to make her happy, and he would always leave his grandma’s house with shiny red lips.”

They boys laughed at that, as I buckled my seatbelt and pulled out of the parking lot.

“Can we have shiny lips, dad?” 

“Sure sure sure. But back to that story. Every once in a while, I’ll come across one of those lip glosses lying around, even after all these years. And I know that my grandma is thinking about me and is sending some love. That’s why she’s going on the ofrenda. I miss her a lot, and this will be a good way to think about her and tell you guys more stories about her. So you get to know her in a way, you know?”

I could feel my wife smiling at me from the side.

“Alright,” she said, “let’s get all these photos put together so they’re ready by the time we get home. Where's the photo of mama’s Tio Roso? It’s the only one I’m missing right now.”

“Oh, Leon threw it out the window when we were still in the parking lot,” Theo said. 

“LEON. Why didn’t you say something guys?!” 

This was standard child protocol for us at this point, and so I was already busting a u-turn and heading back to the parking lot. We could replace the picture again, but if we didn’t have to then that would save some time. 

It had gotten darker, the sun painting the sky a hazy purple, almost out of sight. Even with the parking lot lights on, it was pretty hard to see. But I pulled up to where I had been parked and thought I saw something just outside.

“Hold on guys, hopping out real quick.”

I opened the door and stepped out. Right outside the door, the photo was lying on the ground. I picked it up and jumped back into the car, handing it to my wife. 

She stared at the photo a bit with a small smile I noticed as I buckled my seatbelt. 

I brushed her hand with my own, giving it a small squeeze and a smile. 

“Mama, what’s on the back of the picture?”

“Uh, I don’t know mijo, maybe dirt? Let’s se-”

She flipped over the photo. Taped to the backside was the $10 bill she had given to the guy. 

“That’s… weird I guess? Maybe he didn’t need the money after all?” I said, not thinking much as I pulled out of the parking lot. 

I heard her pull off the tape before she gave a small gasp. She was holding two bills in her hand- a $10 and a $1. 

“Oh- he paid you back with interest I guess. That was cool of him.”

She looked at me, her eyes wide, and said “My domingo.”

It took me a second to realize what she was talking about before it sunk in. I brushed her hand again, and held it there as I drove home. 

She dabbed at her eye a bit, and then turned to the littles again. 

“Family is funny like that, mijos. But anyways, let me tell you about the one time Tio Roso taught me how to lay tile. We did all of the tile at your ‘guito’s house, that's why it’s so cold over there all the time. Cause your mama and her tio did such a good job. See, you gotta make sure…” 

She told the little ones about her Tio, the kids excited to hear about him. And as I drove home, my thoughts shifted to my grandma. And when I might find one of those lip glosses again.