When Doc Toyo departed, Alonso retrieved a small wooden box that Maya kept hidden behind a plate standing upright on the mantle. On its face, a picture of the sun smiling down on their little adobe. Scribbled at the bottom’s edge were the words, From Julio, ‘The Artist’ with Love. With a single shake, Alonso emptied the box on the red clay floor. It was six month’s pay shy of a casket, headstone and flowers.
At St. Margarita’s seven days later, Alonso walked the aisle, nodding his head at the sight of merchandise scattered on the folding tables. Pastor Fernandez had petitioned members of the parish to donate items large and small, while artists of the church brought paintings or sculptures for a fundraiser Alonso had never imagined. When Maya stepped forth in the light of the doorway her shadow cast a mural against the wall – her motherly essence preceding her pose. She clasped his hand and pressed it to her waist. “There must only be forward,” she said. “There can only be things to come.”
Depart oh sorrow
Mind not travails of the heart
Love forever brings