You wake in Mexico.

That’s the first thing I noticed as I woke, the words were taped on the snowy ceiling: black, bold writing tilted and cursive, like ashen leaves on a lined page. It was amusing.

Well, that wasn’t precisely the first thing I noticed.

A dull throbbing headache.

That’s the first thing I noticed as I woke, it was the kind that shot lashes of pain radiating through your skull at even the suggestion of light and sound. I was hungover.

Well, this too was incorrect, that wasn’t the first thing I had noticed.

A hollow cavern where my memory should be.

That’s the first thing I noticed as I woke, like reaching into a jar of age worn pennies, only to have your fingers brush the icy bottom. I look up, look around, perplexed. It seemed the jar was not the largest of my concerns, there was emptiness. Still and stale emptiness. Where there should have been a yesterday and a day before and a day before; there was nothing. I was lost.

So really, there were three things I noticed as I woke.

The words on the ceiling did not seem amusing as the ramifications set in. Could I really be in Mexico? A ringing began in the back of my mind, small and incessant and trilling. I pushed myself up. My mouth was a cracked, brittle patch of desert, ravenous for rain. My temples a mocking symphony of silent agony, pulsing and thumping. Something crinkled under my fingers, I looked down, a note was taped on the thin, mint green blanket I had slept under. Lined paper: You forgot to write a note yesterday. Look at the bedside table. -- Dad

I looked. It was a small wooden thing, the top covered in post-it notes of writing, neon assuaged my sight in a violent flurry of pink and yellow and green and blue and orange; the pinned wings of exotic birds. The writing was the same as the scrawl on the ceiling. I leaned forward to read them:

This is a tldr for you, who is me tomorrow. Keep up and try not to waste the day processing, you’ll have to do this again in 26 hours.

1. You have Susac Syndrome of the encephalopathy kind.

2. It’s a rare autoimmune disease, that resets your memory every 26 hours.

3. You’re 19 years old.

4. A year into the memory loss you moved back to Mexico, which is where you live now -- I thought the ceiling note would be amusing. Was it today? You’re opinion fluctuates.

5. You have a journal log and a video log of each day in the first drawer of this side table.

6. You work at your aunt’s book store. Look for instructions on that in the journal.

7. You don’t work today. It’s Día de Muertos -- The Day of The Dead.

8. Yes. You did write these, the parents have a strict respect of privacy policy. /I’ve/ certainly never caught them snooping.

Each word was a stone hurled at my skin, I stumbled searching the silence that was my mind. The earliest memory I could recall was of a mundane winter day, where I had slept in, because of the snow outside. Only the roof tops of New York were glittering white, the ground was a slippery mess of muddied slosh that you could no longer call snow. It was the weekend. I was 16. The ringing became louder, faster, almost a monotone scream.

I was 19.

Three years had passed. Three years the world had spun, the days had dawned, people had loved and fought for three years, and I did not recall a single thing. I knew my name: Ainara, knew I had parents, knew of my life in New York, but they seemed like blurry reels of film from a past time, ineffective in the slots I had before me.

Reaching for the bronze handle of the drawer, my fingers lingered on the ridges, they swooped and dove, swirls of frozen fire, I hesitated.

My past was as indiscernible as the muddied snow and I would have to do this countless times, had done it countless. Would it really matter, if I skipped this part? Alas, my curiosity held more sway than apprehension. I couldn’t decide if it was a trait of the Ainara that was supposed to be, or of the Ainara that woke up today. Tightening my grip on the handle, I slid the drawer open. A worn, leather journal looked up at me: embossed with overlapping leaves of varying hues of green, from forest to electric binding thick cream pages. A sleek black camera, slightly larger than my palm, leaned against it.

I don’t know what I expected as I flipped through the pages, traced the curl of the inked words. Recognition, perhaps even a flicker of familiarity, but that was not the case. Each page was filled with sentences, accounts, jokes, even curses, they were wistful, raging; excited, remorseful; accepting, melancholy; hopeful, numb; determined, some pages just scribbled in black, as if words had been too agonising. Yet, the girl in these pages was a kaleidoscope of people, she was no more me, than the girl from the first day of accounts was the girl on the second day. The journal was a tomb of strangers. The videos, the pictures an eulogy, with people I once knew, acting as punctuation to the girl who was once known.

The only relevant information was the location of her --my secret stash of money, kept away from the parents to spend on things they would surely not approve off. Maybe they did snoop then. It didn’t really matter, I suppose.

Shutting away the log, I strode to the opposite side of the bed, the pepper tiled floor cool beneath my feet. Deep blue curtains brushed my bare knees, I traced the intricate designs of gold thread sewn on the thick material, little sun bursts and marigolds under my skin. Finding, no reason to linger, I opened the curtains unceremoniously.

My breath caught in my throat, an inexplicable pressure building in my chest. The sky was a pale blue marble, the sun a shard of glass; blinding, vividly white, wisps of clouds trailed the sky on a languid wind. Sunlight struck the brown and mahogany roofs of the indigenous adobes, shadows pooling onto the cobblestoned street. Gnarled roots of bright leafed trees grasped at the grey stones, fingers digging to the soil below. It was a quiet, quaint street, a weight lingered at each corner, each crevice, as if the town listened, adored the people, as much as the people listened, adored the town. History sat heavy in doorways, stories peeked out from cracks in brick, there was a tender affection in the way the sky hung over the town; it spoke of secrets, if only you would dare to look, dare to fall in love with them.

Wreathed onto each window, crafted into arches at doors were flowers, it was as if they had bloomed from the bricks of the houses themselves. Marigolds the colour of sunshine, of bursting oranges; chrysanthemums the colour of snow, of a violet sky, of crimson berries; gladioli stalks of blushing pink, of blood red curled, swayed and draped on the street. It was a riot of sight, an exclamation of life. Look, look, look they seemed to beckon, to preen.

Even if the post its had not mentioned it, I would have known it was the Day of the Dead. Never, in New York had there been anything half as elaborative, as much of a culmination of community. The pressure in my chest increased, a thin blade of longing slicing my ribs, how many such days had I missed, such untamed beauty had I forgotten. My breath blurred the window, I had not noticed I had pressed my face to the glass, my hands gripping the wooden sill, a child wishing greedily for the unattainable.

Relaxing my fingers, I stepped back, the sun cupping me in its warmth, as I stood, arms limp dust motes swirling around my frame; lazy.

I exhaled, a soft, barely there passing of air through my lips; I turned and surveyed the room.

Like the journal, it was more a coalition of entries than the continuous prose of one person. The room itself was more perfunctory than whimsical, with a sleek onyx framed bed parenthesised by black painted side tables, a desk adjacent to the bed, also black: it was the kind you could tuck your chair into, with plenty of compartments and drawers for storage, a pair of horizontal shelves lined above it. There was a larger shelving unit tucked an arm’s length away, only stopping a foot from the open door, it gleamed as the sunshine trickled over the onyx surface. The only ornamented furniture was the full bodied mirror opposite the window, acting as one of the two doors leading to the wardrobe. It’s muted gold outline complementing the swirled brass handles of the wardrobe. Everything else was plain, to the point.

Except it wasn’t, the clutter in the room counterintuitive, like a conversation was underway, like a sentence left off midway; convoluted. Paintings and sketches were pinned on the walls, a disarray of images all unfinished. There was a cyan river that wove between two midnight silhouettes abruptly vanishing at their cut off legs; the face of a charcoal boy peered at you with one mournful, golden eye; an apple blossom tree with pencil lined petals stood suspended in a blank void. The shelves seemed to be a hybrid of organization, books stood in neat lines, their spines facing out when a space would abruptly open up, a statue of a sinuous greyhound with a missing leg, or a tumble of chains, or a smattering of guitar picks would shatter the tidy demeanour.

There was a trio of cacti in earthen pots on the desk, a single knitting needle poked out of a pile of polaroids, of people and places I wasn’t sure were supposed to be strangers. Many a instrument was strewn across the room: guitar, flute, keyboard.

Even a bike helmet, with its visor up lay discarded, next to a web of dream catchers. It was as if someone had tried to pursue a great many things, started a great many things with no intention of mastering them, completing them. There was a hopeless abandon to it. Obscure things like tiny silver bells, marigold shaped candles and ornate knives were present in abundance, as if the objects were skewed stand ins for memories: a superficial theatre play of history. I felt a sudden claustrophobia, the ghosts of girls that that never lived pressed against me, stuffing my nose, clogging my lungs. Unable to stand it any longer, I walked out, steps brisk, nails digging into palms.

A small hall way greeted me as I emerged from the room, spying the bathroom I decided to freshened up, splashing ice water on my face, a wincing girl with bruises under her eyes stared back at me in the small, oval mirror. She look bedraggled. The fluctuating octave of two voices lead me out of my reprieve, let me out of the toilet. My parents? They had to be. Trepidation hunched on my shoulders, doubt whispered in my ears, they would know me, yet I would not know them. No, that wasn’t strictly true, they would not know me either, I was not the girl of yesterday, I was a different shard of a similar mosaic. I had been close with my parents, from what I could recall; ink stained hands, the warmth in my father’s eyes; a percussive laugh, the frown in my mother’s reprimand. I had been closer to my father, I think.

It was his voice I heard first.

″ --- I don’t think I can see her today. She wakes up a stranger Lydia, I can’t --- I just can’t ---”

The words seemed choked. My steps slowed.

“She was drunk last night. I found her on our doorstep. The doorstep for god sakes. What can I even say to her?”

A weary breath. I stopped.

“I don’t even know her Lyd... she’s a stranger.”

The sentence was a hoarse whisper. I blinked.

“I know, I know.”

A voice murmured. I blinked.

“It certainly isn’t what we expected.”

She sighed, the sound bowed with weight. I blinked.

I blinked once, twice, thrice. I thought perhaps it was not supposed to hurt so much when really I did not know them and really they had every right to be drained by my presence. Still, their drained, dull voices fell like stray embers on my skin, branding it a raw pink.

Quietly, I inched forward.

My father sat hunched, elbows on the round dinner table that lay in the kitchen -- dining room, heels of his hands pressed into his eyes, as if pushing the sentiments that rose in him back, back, back. His hair had grown longer, the onyx locks curled around his deep brown ears. He was clad in rumpled clothing -- a too long maroon sweater, beige trousers -- I wasn’t sure if it was my fault, or because he had always been a rumpled looking man. Never still, as if time ran away faster from him than others. Soft lines, blurred edges, a roving mind, that’s what my father was; a dirt road that took you to obscure towns you never wanted to leave. He was home.

My mother was the opposite, sharp lines and sharper angles, her hair was glossy black and swayed at her straight shoulders in a straight curtain. She was tall -- like me -- her features delicate, her eyes cool and still like the bottom of a lake: black, her lips thin as a blade. Never one for outward emotion. She was a piece of architecture, sleek, lovely and remote. Unchanged by these three years. Standing behind my dad, tilted towards him, away from the door, from me.

It was the hand she lay on my dad’s neck, that snagged my gaze. The gesture was strange, it cupped the top of his spine, a thumb stroking tender lines in the dip of his shoulder. They had not seen me yet, she dipped her head and spoke into his hair. It was a soft gesture, so at odds with the hard lines of her frame. Ripples of dissonance wavered through me. They were a team. The day was not the brightest, the birds did not chirp so, still they were a team. A thought rose, unbidden.

Where was my team?

It was a selfish, forlorn thing to think and I felt suddenly, distinctly alone.

Slipping back down the corridor, I bang my foot loudly to the wall. Waiting a few breaths before I made my way into the kitchen, giving them plenty of time to rearrange themselves, giving my father time to leave.

The room was brightly lit and cool, with large windows, peppered tiles and white counters. A circular table of sturdy of sat in front of a patio door, the warm, hazy air wove in. My mother stood, leaning to lay the table, nonchalant, her copper skin gleamed in the sun, her hair slid over her face. I almost did not believe I had seen the two lined with grief a moment before. Almost. She looked up, eyes running over me, as if to check I was okay, to check who I was today; they were steady, calculating.

“Morning mama.”

A glint of pain sliced her gaze, she sucked in a breath, her eye lids stuttered, she straightened, collected once again. A petal of warmth floated on the ice of her eyes, though she was as unaffectionate as ever. That I remembered.

“Ainara. Sit, eat. Olivero made sweet bread yesterday.”

I knew I had most likely heard her voice before, yesterday even, still the clipped, cool tenor made nostalgia rise. I missed her. I was missing her still.

Nodding, I sat, I ate. The conversation was one sided, she spoke, I listened. I did not mind, her words were the crisp spill of water on sun warmed stones. They were soothing, they were home. We spoke as if I had been away, neither of us mentioned my father. It seemed the lack of approaching the subject was for my benefit, as when we both finished our food, she pushed the plate back and looked at me with a piercing gaze. My mother had never been a soft woman, and at times I had resented her for it, but now there was nothing more comforting, the knowledge that even this devastating thing that lay before us could not crack her demeanour. The realisation was assuring; a relief.

“Ainara,” the r rolled and the i lengthened, I was gripped by the inexplicable urge to hear my name again and again, I felt as if no one had spoken it in an age.

“Are you feeling well today?”

“I’m fine.”, I replied, “Ask me tomorrow.” I stilled, as the words tumbled from my lips, clattering clumsily as they fell between us. My mother’s lips curled up: red vines, “Hilarious. Don’t make such jokes in front of Olivero though, he’s... not feeling well today.”

“You two should go to his family’s house.” I said, scratching a nick in the table, “For Dia De Muertos. I’ll be fine, I want to have a quiet day at home.” I looked at her then, at the smooth skin around her eyes, at odds with my father’s crow’s feet, I didn’t know why I lied, but I kept my gaze unassuming. She seemed to mull over the proposal.

“Alright golondrina.” She relented, laying a hand over my own, our fingers long and bony, the past and future entangled. Shame was a salted wave that seeped into my flesh, scraping me raw. I couldn’t remember the last time she had called me that -- pequeña golondrina: little swallow -- it was the closest she came to genteel when I was a child. My throat itched, my head ached. I felt no more a stranger than now.

------------------------------------------------------------------

The dusk pressed against the windows, the sky was blushing and light, it spilled like a iridescent web through the window, across the floor, straining for me; the drink of a forgotten goddess.

It had been a few hours since I had come back from the walk, strolling the streets that shifted under my feet; all bumps and hollows. My mother of all people had suggested it. The houses stood beside each other like close companions, reversed robins with white breasts, red bottoms, basking in the gleaming arrows the sun rained down. I had woven through the silent streets, my shadow crawling the cobblestoned walkway languidly, leaves of yellow and ochre brown twirled in the air, rasped along the ground, taunting the green ones quivering on branches. My phone pinged, a casual reminder to see off my mother, sent by my mother. I was devastated in the way small galaxies collapse, at the lack of news on my father. I would not see him today, the thought sat heavy in my bones. He did not want to see me.

It was as I made my way back, that the dress caught my eye, the hat tugged my attention. On a pale mannequin who had her plastic elbows bent in a suggestion of hands on hips, was the ensemble I would wear tonight. Where ever I was going, it would be in that.

I bought it.

Now I wore it.

I was ready.

Kohl lined eyes of obsidian, berry stained lips of red. Eyes wide; full, lips thin; sharp, jagged black bangs and wavy hair brushed my bare collarbone. I was a reflection of my mother, harsher, less delicate, a construction of long limbs and large features. An impressionist statue of her; all points and angles, a disagreeable steel piece. The girl who stared back at me in the mirror was a stranger.

Hung by two straps an inch thick a dress clung to her, it’s bodice plain and black, a pointed neck line, it dipped with her frame, the skirts flaring slightly at the hips. They were the true masterpiece: cloth fractured like shards into midnights, greens, reds and yellows, a mosaic of thin glass gleaming and glinting. A large brimmed hat of onyx sat at a jaunty angle on her head, bursting with feathers and glittering with jewels, vehement elegance casting shadows on her face, a iridescent gold veil hung from the brim, trapping her eyes behind it’s sheer facade. An amber stone winked against the brown skin of her bare throat, silver bangles tinkled on both her arms. This girl was not beautiful; she was fierce, she was alluring. A fabrication made of strands of night, crumpled petals and an aching tune.

I enjoyed the sight of her immensely, I smiled.

Tonight, I would not feel the weight of lost memories, lost years. Tonight, I would bask in the loveliness that was Dia de Muertos, the beauty and joy of it. I would not be a missing person out there. I would be just another girl out celebrating. With the phone my mother had pointed out was mine, I could check the time and return before my memories reset.

The guilt of lying seemed distant, the ringing of caution disabled. Even if I forgot, I wanted this night, needed this night. This one night. I could not bear the thought of staying in, with nothing but alien walls and the echo of my parent’s words to keep me company.

I can’t --- I just can’t ---

Certainly not what I expected.

I twisted harshly, snatching up the small rectangular clasp I had found in the wardrobe, from the crinkled sheets of my bed. It had a thin gold chain I looped my arm through, long enough that the white bag banged against my waist. Running my hands over its leather-like hide, I picked at the material, wondering why I could not swallow their sentiments. It should not have been hard for a girl, who had been lost to them for so long. Pivoting my head, I regarded my bared back in the mirror, brown stretched down, down, the skirts started at the base of my spine. My stare snagging on the raised scar peeking out from under a teal shard, curved to line the flat ‘u’ of the garment. It seemed innocuous. I could not stop staring. I did not recall how it came to be. It seemed as if I should know. Had I known before?

Like turning the page of a book you had read long before, I realised, why I could not let the presence of the scar go, the presence of the weariness in my parents go. I wanted the crystalline sugared lie to be true, the one about truest love and its strongest power. Even though I had been lost to them, I did not want them to be lost to me. Did not want them dimmed. Reality was a bitter pill, more so when you gagged on it first hand.

Enough. I would not whittle away my night like so.

Pushing aside the emptiness that tried to climb up my throat, the weariness that draped itself from my limbs, I strode for the door. Leaving the letters I would soon forget behind, steps tap tap tapping as I left.

Finding the epicentre of the festivities was not a hard feat. The many people had migrated to the town plaza; Plaza Vasco de Quiroga the snatches of tourist conversations whispered. The Grande Plaza. People moved like flocks of birds cawing and scraping through the streets, faces painted white, eyes outlined black, a gaggle of skeletons in fine clothing. Tourists and town dwellers alike wore costumes with large hats, flapping cloaks and swishing dresses, it was a sight to behold, truly the day of the dead had come.

I wove through the milling crowd, but another bauble in. The plaza was brimming with life, it was a creature unto itself. Stone arches were adorned with flowers of every colour, lights were strung on the ash trees lining the place, stately mansions stood around it: watchful visitors from a colonial time. Stores overflowed with people, window displays of earthen clay pots and plaques, decadent draperies, intricate accents of dancing people and animals, straw baskets woven with bright flowers, beckoning. Music rose above the buzz of the crowd: a staccato beat, a tittering whistle, a sonorous string, clambering up my limbs, sinking into my skin, wrapping itself around my heart in a sparkling golden veil. A delighted laugh sputtered out of me. My worries, my life was dew under the sun, flimsy, easily vanished. More, I wanted more.

Moving further into the crowd, I drank the sights in with greedy eyes, there was such colour, such music, a distinct vitality thrummed in the air. Dusk bloomed like a tender bruise, the sky lilac, navy, clouds blazing pumpkin with the light of the dying sun, turning periwinkle with the arrival of the waking night. Street lamps flickered on, mellow against the cream walls of the mansions, illuminating a musician with flowing garbs playing by a fountain, grey hair slicked back, wrinkles linning his caramel skin, a violin in his stocky arms, playing almost fervently to a cluster of individuals. The fountain sat in the centre of the square, the bronze statue of a man levelled the revellers clicking pictures and throwing coins a shrewd stare

I bought myself nieve -- ice cream -- and ate de membrillo -- sweets of fruit paste, my fingers sticky, as I went back again, the store worker with long, grey flecked braids and kind eyes smiling as if to agree with my silent declaration. My cheeks hurt from the exultance they could not contain. I spied my reflection in the window of a shop: skin flushed, eyes glittering, lips tilted crooked; a red feather bowed from my hat, people streamed in the background; blurred. That girl had never known anything but exuberance.

Feet aching, I found a less crowded place to sit as the moon grinned bright and the night swept across the sky. I had been roaming for some time now; sliding onto the lip of the fountain, the gurgling of the water a song in itself. I watched a girl with neon green hair splash a boy wearing thin wire frames with water; he squawked and sputtered, before pushing the girl in wholly. Three more figures looked on and laughed, their faces alight and carefree, the only other girl rolling her eyes in good humour; a curtain of midnight hair brushing her waist. None had painted their face with skulls, but they all wore exaggerated clothing, kohl lined eyes and varying sized hats. A group of friends out from college, or taking a break from their jobs. The mundanity of their demeanour, the potentiality of their simple lives struck a painful pang in me, it snuck up like a thief, stealing the breath from my lungs, leaving behind an acute sense of want. It was a desperate asp of an emotion, seizing my very being in its striking grasp. All at once, the beauty of the night was tinged with a profound loneliness.

What am I doing here?

As if feeling the weight of my eyes, the girl of midnight hair turned, the exaggerated volume of her sea foam skirts barely moving, hem ending mid thigh. Her green eyes were frank, if not subtly inquisitive. She was pretty in an unassuming way with dark, a short stature, her mouth a black painted bud. An ocean coloured bodice hugged her form, swooping and diving dramatically. Locks of pin straight hair fell down her bared copper shoulder, settling on the asymmetric ruffles on her chest. A miniature black top hat sat on her head at an angle. She reminded me of a doll, one you were to observe, preserve and never play with. I had the distinct impression to keep the observation to myself. Stare unwavering, she made her way towards me, her steps unhurried, casual despite the strawberry red heels she wore; the thick, squared heel at last four inches tall. She halted a short distance away.

“Heading to the island?” her voice was not high and sweet as I had assumed, but of a breathy, deeper tenor.

I did not know what island she referred to, nor what had given her the impression that I would want to visit it. But perhaps that was not the point of the question.

“Want to head over with us? We need another person to split the fare for the canoe.”

I hesitated, nonplussed by the lack of caution, I was a stranger after all. Wasn’t I? Was I supposed to know her? Unease slicked my palms. She noticed my apprehension, acknowledging it with a wry smile, as if it was often a by product of the conversations she had.

“It’s a crowded island, the one with all the cemeteries?” She cocked her head, “Several boats leave together, you can still change your mind at the docks”.

A stranger then. Still wary I replied, “I don’t have much money left.”

“Your share will be four pesos.”

I did not know anything about the currency, but it didn’t sound nearly enough. Unsure, I pondered, was I going to do this? The thought a coin I twisted in the haloed light of the street lamp I sat not to far from. The girl waited, silent.

Slipping my phone from the bag I checked the time: 8:07. Even if it took an hour to travel, I’d be back home with an hour to spare. A warm breeze flicked my hair, a strand stuck to my lip as I stood. I had the peculiar urge to lay down and stare at the stars. Settling for tilting my head back, I listened, to the wind, the music, the clamour that settled in me, sinking solidly to my core. I had never felt like this in New York. It may have had something to do with being younger, but I did not think so. The wild scent of fresh grass, the heated breeze felt right, felt true, felt like home. How was it possible I would forget this? This moment under a prussian sky so wide and open. This music that rattled life into my bones.

The day of the dead. I suppose It was my day too.

It seemed I had underestimated how close the girl was; from my peripheral I saw as she too tipped her head up, hair shushing as she moved, breath hitting my throat. So we stood, two girls with the wind in our hair and stars in our eyes. I looked at her then, this creature who belonged in a dreamscape, yet stood by an alabaster fountain. She met my gaze, neck craned to look up at me, fine boned hands clutching her elbows with ruby nails, arms pressed to her abdomen. She stood poised, as if any moment she would glide into a dance. Her face impassive, her dark green eyes swimming with a quiet, buzzing energy. My name may have meant swallow, but she was the bird; light and airy. Her citric scent filled my lungs.

“What’s your name?”

She hummed; lifting a bronze skinned hand, her fingers flicked the tip of my hat, satisfied with my decision. Taking a step back she answered: “Leire”.

“Ainara.”

We did not say it was a pleasure, because neither of us knew if it was true, we simply walked side by side as the stars pinpricked above our heads. Her friends were pleasant, but uninterested in me and I in them. We made our way to the docks, the two of us walking behind the group. At one point, Leire stopped at a flower vendor’s, she bought two crowns of marigold and several twined flower bracelets: bright pink, canary yellow, pale blue. We adorned our finery with sombre faces and coruscating eyes and when I reached for her hand she did not let go. I did not truly understand what happiness was, but I thought that this could be close.

Reaching the docks, two storybook silhouettes, one with an oversized head piece on which curls a marigold crown and the other with a tiny head piece which epicentres a marigold crown, we peered out at the black, glassy expanse of water, at the canoe nearest to us. Its surface nicked, but coated in gleaming scarlet paint, its body long as the poles of the street lamps, longer, and wide enough to situate three passengers on each of the four mahogany coloured benches that cleaved the boat -- with room to spare

I watched her friends clamber into the boat, somehow separate from us; guided by the reedy boy with wireframe glasses, he the boat still, surprisingly apt at predicting when his companions will dip the canoe, righting it accordingly. I am next, I stare at the mop of churlishly curled auburn hair on his head, at the silver hoops in his ear, the assurance he exudes, pale skin translucent under the glow of the moon. He smiles, small and sturdy, I smile back and fumble on; Leire behind me. The wood digs into my tail bone, the oar a foreign object in my palm. The sky so blue it is black, occasional stars peer down from the bruised velvet, jealous of the moonlight that falls on the lake, our upturned faces; a silver slip making us all a little other. There are more than a dozen of these scarlet boats lining the mildewed docks, bobbing on water that ripples; warping the symmetry of up and down. Petals of gold, the occasional berry, snow, litter the surface around the canoes, an island of lights winking in the distance and I think it is the most beautiful thing I will see.

I am wrong.

Leire squeezes my hands, a hush falls the crowd, I watch her watch them, her black lips part, a shudder escaping them. In her night darkened eyes, I see them, tiny flames blinking to life. A sound scrapes our boat, quietly; a snick, a whoosh, a weak golden glow bathes her face.

I turn. My heart shutters ---

Candles like halos smatter each scarlet canoe, as far as the eye can see -- more boats then I originally spotted line the dark. The flames flicker like a multitude of resplendent stars, fallible in their fiery glow, but beautiful just the same. My heart breaks; slowly, surely. Salt tracks drip down my cheeks. I do not want to forget. Like many others, her friends pick up their oars and start rowing, murmuring conversation and the splash of water fills the air. I do not want to forget.

“What’s wrong?” she asks.

“I don’t want to forget.”

She laughs, a mellifluous sound. “Silly girl,” , she says, “How can you forget?”

How can I forget? How can I possibly forget such a sight? I curse, I rage behind the glass of my gleaming eyes. I beg her to understand, to save me with silent words, but like me, she is just another girl. Fear is a scarf around my neck, sorrow the air I exhales, so I merely slip my oar into the lake and push back the waters for this one night.

The journey to the island does not take as long as I thought it would, our canoe thumps against the shore, but we do not move. The night seems to be wheeling past, a racer determined to win, I beg it to slow. It ignores me.

Her friends tie the vessel to a post, the boat tipping as they climb out; we sit side by side at the far end. The boy with auburn hair goes to blow out the candles, “Leave them.” I say, voice a rasp, as if I had been screaming all the way here. And really, hadn’t I been? He just nods, but a hasty jerk of his head, before bolting away to the dead that await.

The two of us stay. We are still. We are silent. It is almost a game of who will talk first, as the imposter stars around us extinguish and people thud off their vessels. I think of how I must look to her, tear streaks down my face, a gold veil obscuring my eyes, thin lips pressed to a blood red slash. A creature of mourning whimsy in a shattered dress.

I move first; not possessing the luxury time grants her, but as I open my mouth only silence emerges; yawning and disquiet. So, I do the next best thing: press my mouth to hers, petals fluttering from our heads, my dress sighing with soft clinks. She lifts my veil and peers at my eyes, hers are emeralds, mine obsidians and for now they are enough.

We never do make it to the island.

The rest of night we drift. We drift back across the water. Drift off the canoe. Drift from the lake. Eventually, we drift down separate ginnels, neither one of us disappointed.

Footsteps ringing in the cobblestone street. I hope to permeate the auburn bricks, the brown boughs, so that a part of the girl I am today may still survive the night. For, I have written no words and snapped no pictures. The ache of impending loss bends me double, I lay a hand on the cool wall, my hair sliding over my face. I see a woman with a face akin to mine echo the tilt of my head. It does not seem possible, that it has only been a few hours since then. My throat is razor wire, my tongue heavy in my mouth; I am so thirsty, so tired. Vague mentions of medicine clutter my mind, was I supposed to take some? Panic screeches, nails on the chalk walls of my mind. I do not know if what I am forgetting is the usual misplacement of information, or the particular brand of forgetfulness that is tailored for me. Biting my lip, I pull up a map on the phone screen -- red band marking the route -- it emits a sickly blue hue that hurts my eyes.

The red line and an automated voice lead me back. I arrive at the place that should be home, the house is quiet, cicadas chirping outside, as I make my way to the room that should be mine. Gait hurried, fingers curled, I walk up the hallway that leads to it. The night looms, shadows gather in corners of the ceiling, the floor, a thin strand of light leeks from the kitchen. It is a thread I grasp, I follow. My pulse rises, as I cross the threshold to my room. A childish fear warns me not to look back. I exhale a silent sigh, blowing it out. Bending my leg up behind me, I unstrap my shoe, letting it clatter onto the floor. Repeating the action for my left foot, the tile bites the soles of my feet with iced incisors. It feels as if I am the only one for miles.

I halt in front of my desk, sifting through the polaroids, finding my face over and over again -- my thumb tracing the dull edge of the pictures. Setting them aside, for what, I’m unsure, but an idea lingers in my peripheral, a stalk of lavender, waving; I avert my gaze for now. Tapping the surface of the desk, fingers pattering, I assess my findings.

I nod. I reach up, I tug my hat off, the feathers tickling the back of my palm. My actions a stacatto beat, off rhythm and jerking. I set it down, arranging the polaroids around its perimeter. It feels incomplete. I reconsider. I put the hat back on, moving to stand in front of the mirror and capture a picture of myself using the camera nestled in the bedside drawer. Again I pad my way to the desk. Again I rearrange the photos around the headwear, the one on the camera serving as the centre piece, the catalyst; a self portrait of sorts. Chilled air caresses my arms as I gently remove the flower bracelets littered amongst the silver circlets, careful not to snap them. I drape them over the hat, in front of the pictures, on top of the camera. It is obvious what I am doing, but I lean into denial’s embrace. I know I will not remember doing this tomorrow, but it seems immensely important to leave something behind. An indication of the sights I saw today. An indication of the girl that lived today. Would I ever be her again?

I think, I should have saved some ate de membrillo. It does not matter, I suppose.

Lifting the garland of marigolds from the hat, I pinch the damp gold and orange petals between the pads of my finger and thumb. I do not want to forget.

Please, I think. Please. Foolish, an exercise in futility. I close my eyes, a shuddering breath squeezing past my lips.

I face the lavender stalk. Finally, I listen to its hushing. Finally, I snap the crown. Finally, I lay trail of flowers from the desk to my window. After all, what is a soul, but a culmination of memories?

Moonlight pierces the gold veins of the wet petals on the sill, the crumpled canary road on the speckled tiles leading to my impromptu grave.

An alter made on the night of the dead, pictures to remind the ghost, with marigolds to lead the soul back home.

I climb into bed, knees tucked to my chin, they dig and grind the bone there. I am too tall, too old for this really, but I do not unfold, instead wrapping arms around my dress clad legs. It scratches my them, the bangles digging into skin, but I do not mind. Perhaps the scars will outlast the night, a token of the person I was today, a witness to the charm of my exhaled and inhaled breaths. I peer straight ahead, minutes skitter by, my eyes grow heavy.

A mismatched shrine.

That’s the last thing I notice as I fall asleep, it was the incomplete kind, full of want, void of meticulous arrangement. Petals and pictures were strewn around a flamboyant hat, colour of still life against the synthetic black. I am lost.

Well, that isn’t precisely the last thing I notice.

The hollow song of a faraway violin.

That’s the last thing I notice as I fall asleep, the warbling tune of grieving strings. The perfect manifestation of the ache that buds in me, it’s a siren call, luring the heart broken to a watery end. I am lost.

Well, this too was incorrect, that isn’t the last thing I notice.

You wake in Mexico.

That’s the last thing I notice as I fall asleep. Head tilted, imploring the heavens, the scrawl. The light of the moon is not enough to reveal the ashen curls, but I know they are there, not leaves at all, but cruel whips razing my flesh; a mockery. I am lost.

So really, there are three things I notice as I fall asleep.