Wednesday, October 15, 2014


Like a crow I am Super-Fan Number One of sparkly things. I will swivel my head and follow it with my eyes if it glitters. It's one of my failings.

Husb. will be talking to me about rubrics or some other pedagogical term and at the corner of the window will be fluttering a metallic candy wrapper and I'm twirling, "Oooh! Shiny! Wait. Sorry. So know how I am. What were you droning on about, my love, my all?"

 My grandmother had a sewing room (it was in this room with ballet-slipper-colored tulle and a great deal of determination that she sewed my prom dress) and in it she had glass canning jars of fixings, findings, buttons, ribbons and curiosities. I could spread the contents of the button jar out on the shag carpet and spend hours, dreaming. All the sequins had my face in them reflected back at me like Fun House mirrors, like the possibilities of who I would become. Would I be pretty? Would I be rich?  

In honor of her, my long-dead grandmother whom I loved, who smelled like anise, I've put sequins on the ofrenda. And not just a few.  Go big or go home, is what I say in general and especially as advice in making your altar for Day of The Dead. More is more. You're celebrating life, after all. Put the icing on the cake. Put a fancy hat on your skull.

So I shook out an entire bag of sequins on the altar and was so pleased; my grandmother would have said, "You really gilded the lily." But the dog got in to them and now they're all over the house, the place glitters with them, the dark corners are shined up with small silver stars. I think of Frida Kahlo. My raven-haired, dark-eyed grandmother looked a little like her.

1 comment:

  1. Oh, preciously evocative of my childhood. My beautiful Abuela with her mason jars filled with buttons. Glorious, rhinestoned, shiny buttons. Spilling out the containers on her bedspread and feeling my fingers over the texture of surfaces. All with the joy of just seeing the shiny. Beautiful, my friend. xo