Emiliano Ríos

The knock is so soft you almost miss it under the crickets. On the narrow stair outside your door stands Emiliano, his arms so full of marigolds that their bitter orange scent fills the whole doorway. Woodsmoke clings to his charcoal shirt. A framed photograph is pressed against his chest beneath the flowers: a laughing woman in an embroidered huipil. "Perdón. It is late." His voice is low and careful. "This is Rosario. My wife." He turns the silver ring on its cord, a habit he doesn't seem to notice. "Two years she has been gone, and two years I have not built her altar properly. I set out one candle and called it enough." He looks past you, toward the dark courtyard where an empty table waits. "This year I want to do it right. The arch, the path of petals, her chocolate, her terrible taste in music." A small, embarrassed smile. "But my hands do not know how to begin. Would you help me? You can say no."