Cempasuchil

The sun was beginning to set as Samuel gathered the last of the marigolds from the family garden, his basket overflowing from its abundance as he added one after another. A soft tune filled the breeze that passed through and ruffled his dark hair, which was now long enough to pull into half a ponytail rather than the simplistic style having a shaved head offered before. A few strands got into his mouth and Samuel wrinkled his nose in annoyance, sputtering to get it out as he shuffled the basket to balance in the crook of his arm.

"Papa!" came a small voice, and Samuel turned around to give his small daughter his undivided attention. Her pale pink dress was tattered at the hem and covered in dried mud from hours of playing outside, and her brown hair was braided messily in a way that only a six year old could when trying to prove to the adults around her that she could do things on her own. He shook his head fondly and walked over to her side, reaching down to smooth out a few flyaway hairs and leading her to their ranch. His little girl, his Gloria, clung to his pointer finger and swung their hands back and forth contently.

"Abuela says that dinner's nearly ready," Gloria said in a matter-of-fact way, nodding to emphasize the message his mother had her deliver.

"Did she now?" he asked as he pushed the screen door open, the scent of roast chicken and seasonings filling his nostrils. His mother had always been a wonderful cook, unlike his Anita, and he chuckled at the memory of Anita trying to surprise him with dinner one night. His mother had been fretting and Anita had been shooing her away from the stove, ignoring the smoke that rose from it in favor of chopping some vegetables. Samuel swore she would've sent his mother to an early grave if he hadn't come home early that day and talked sense into his wife, though Anita had had the decency of looking bashful afterward.

"She did, and I helped!" Gloria said proudly, letting go of her father's hand and running into the kitchen. "Right, abuela? I got to cut the carrots!"

His mother looked at her nieta fondly and set the last of the table, wiping her hands on her apron and nodding. "Sí, she was a huge help. She cut las zanahorias almost perfectly! She'll be much more skilled in the kitchen than her mother."

Samuel snorted in amusement and set down his basket on the kitchen counter, taking a few of the marigolds from it and tucking them into the vase that already sat at the center of the table. Some that he'd already stuck there in prior weeks were already starting to wilt and Samuel frowned, touching one of the withered flower petals delicately with his fingers. He heard his mother tsk behind him and glanced over his shoulder, eyebrow raised.

"What is it, mama?"

"You collect them every week, mijo, and they die before you get to appreciate it," his mother said. "Perhaps don't collect so many so the garden at least thrives."

"They're important, mama," Samuel said, sighing and taking a marigold to tuck into Gloria's hair. The little girl giggled and ran off to wash her hands, Samuel watching her run fondly. "You know that."

"On Día de los Muertos, perhaps, but not every other day of the year." His mother sighed and made a plate for the three of them, the silence between mother and son only broken by the sound of her fork and knife carving the roast chicken. Samuel walked to the sitting room and opened a side table drawer, digging through Gloria's crafting materials and pulling out a ribbon. He was back in the kitchen and tying a bouquet of the marigolds when his mother spoke again.

"Is your wife off work yet?"

"Nearly. You and Gloria might need to have dinner without me while I go meet with her," he explained. "Es nuestro aniversario de boda. You know Anita and I meet by the tree every year for our anniversary."