We are family, so we sit at the front while they renew their vows at the Catholic Church where my Abuelito is a Deacon. The little cousins wear white dresses because my aunts say it isn’t a wedding so why not, qué cute. The jagged lace on the bottom sticks in their chonies.
At the reception my Abuelito gets mariachis. For my dear one, he says. A teenage cousin brings a güero because last time her Ma said why don’t you date Chicanos. My older cousin has a new baby, and my Abuelita won’t speak to her because she isn’t married to her man. She wears the baby against the skin on her chest wrapped in a pouch. I curl my finger under the stretchy fabric.
I am alone. Where is Cesar, my Uncle demands of me. When will you and Cesar have babies, my Abuelita says in Spanish, you’ve been married three years. She takes my hand, slides her finger across my knuckles. Her skin is soft and cool. You are getting old, she says.
I sit with my Ma at our center table in the crowded hall. She tugs the ends of her black shawl around her shoulders, and shifts her thick, sturdy middle around to face me.
Cesar isn’t coming, I offer it before she asks. He won’t come again.
