Pan de los muertos

A short story about the Mexican tradition of All Saints' Day, ‘Pan de Muertos’, through the eyes of a poor girl who emigrated to the United States and thrived there until the most recent deportations.

Pan de muertos

I am writing this unusual story on All Saints' Day this year, with sadness in my heart. It was told to me by Carmen, my mother's hairdresser for the last few years and my friend, who suddenly disappeared - probably deported to her country of origin.

My friend Carmen is a beautiful, sweet brunette from Mexico, and a hairdresser. She is the same age as me and we became friends because she also surfs (longboard) sometimes at weekends. She wasn't exactly part of my tribe because she has a sick mother to care for and didn't have time to travel with us for a whole day, but she did join us a few times on shorter trips we sometimes take. My boys really like her, especially Rob - who, I learned, would go to her house during the week, at the end of the day, to bring her food and medicine and... probably to date. I will write the story as she told it to me, with her speaking in the first person.

"My family lives in Mexico City. Not in the valley but in a neighborhood situated on the hillside. My house is placed high enough to be able to see the pollution over the lower part of town."

"I would have been ten/eleven when what I am about to tell you happened. On the eve of All Saints' Day, after returning from school, I helped my mother make a large quantity of traditional 'pan de muertos' (bread of the dead), which had been ordered by some wealthy family. The work ended late and neither she nor I had dinner, and we went to bed exhausted.

In the middle of the night I felt very hungry, so I got up and went quietly, barefoot, to the kitchen looking for something to eat, but my father and brothers had eaten everything there was to eat at home.

As I returned to my room, crying silently, I passed by the table where my mother had placed, according to tradition, some of the bread called bread of the dead. I was so hungry that I took a whole loaf, ran to my little room and ate it all, thinking, 'The dead don't need bread, but I do, so God won't be angry with me.'"

"But I didn't foresee what would happen the next day. Everyone at home was convinced that some spirit had taken the bread. There was crying and praying to appease the hungry soul, and even the neighbours were called and joined in the chorus of mourners. I was terrified at the thought that I had sinned and that someone might find out that it was me who had taken the bread, so I ran away from home for a few hours. When I came back, I was even hungrier than the night before, but my mother had bought food with the money she had earned from baking, fed me and kissed me on the head consolingly. I suspect that she had realised it was me who did it, but she never accused or blamed me."

(A story from my new book Alice Remembers - 22 short stories, more or less funny. You can get it at: leanpub.com/aliceremembers)