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The butterfly didn’t come today.
Every day sinceShinálídied, a blue butterfly comes to rest on the tree branch outside my bedroom window. I say it’s her way of being with me, even in death. Mamá thinks it’s just a coincidence.
Her name, Vanessa, means butterfly.
Her favorite color was blue.
If that’s not a sign, I don’t know what is.
I open the window and stick my finger out, hoping the butterfly will fly out of nowhere and crawl onto the tip, but after about fifteen minutes, I give up. I guess she’s not coming today.
I hope I’ll see you tomorrow, Shinálí.
“Victor!” Mamá calls from downstairs.
“Ya voy!”
I hop out of my computer chair and go downstairs, letting my nose lead me to the kitchen where Mamá is dancing while she cooks my favorite for dinner: frybread tacos.
Frybread is a staple in Navajo culture, and my grandmother made the best. The outside is always so crispy and hot, while the center is chewy and warm. She often would make tacos with them, using different toppings every week so we wouldn’t get tired of them. I could never get tired of anything she made. Her frybread tacos are my favorite food in the world, and now that she’s gone, they’re never going to taste the same.
Mamá’s an amazing cook, but nothing beats my shinálí’s frybread and mutton stew.
I lean against the counter and watch her move, seasoning the meat and adding all the bread ingredients into a bowl without even measuring. When she finally turns around, she yelps in surprise.
I laugh. “Sorry, Mamá. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
She blows a strand of her silky black hair out of her face and smiles. “It’s okay,mi hijo. Come help me finish these tacos, and then we’ll be ready to eat.”
She hands me a sharp knife to cut up a head of lettuce and ripe tomatoes. We work quietly and quickly, and ten minutes later, the food is finally finished. Mamá yells for everyone to come and eat, and soon the dining room is filled with my family members.
Uncle Joaquín, Aunt Márta, and my cousin Isaiah—who’s only six months older than me, so we’re very close—sit opposite Mamá and me. Papá takes his usual place at the head of the table, with Mamá sitting in between us. The spots where my grandparents used to sit at the other end are empty. We moved their chairs into the office shortly after Shinálí died. Their absences were painful enough; we don’t need the loss of their presence at the dinner table reminding us that they aren’t coming back.
“Let us pray,” Papá says. We all grasp each other’s hands, bow our heads, and bless our food.
“Amen.”
“Oh,” Mamá gasps. “I forgot our drinks.” She stands up to go back to the kitchen, but just as I’m about to cut into my frybread, angry shouts start coming from the front of the house. I look towards the hall that leads to the foyer and see Antonio, one of Papá’s many soldiers, running down the hallway.
“Patrón!” he shouts, but he doesn’t get much more out before there’s a loud explosion that shakes the whole house.
The blast sends everyone out of their chairs and into the air. Aunt Márta, Uncle Joaquín, and Isaiah go flying into the wall. I land on the floor heavily, shielding my head before it hits the hard wood. Men are shouting frantically and trying to get to the dining room where we are.
Uncle Joaquín looks around and pulls his gun from its holster on his waistband. “Carlos—what the fuck!” he shouts to Papá just as a second explosion sounds—this time off the kitchen, about fifteen feet away.
I cover my face and neck with my hands, trying to keep debris and dust out of my eyes and airways as I’m thrown to the other side of the room by the blast, but I’ve already inhaled so much of it that there’s no point.
“Papá! Mamá!” I shout, waving through the smoke.
“Victor!” Papá’s suddenly in front of me. He grips my shoulders and shakes me a little. “Where’s your mother?”
I look to the kitchen, which is now on fire.
She’s not there.
I shake my head and steel myself against the tears that threaten to break free. “I don’t know! She was right there!”
He stands up and starts looking around for Mamá.
