Salsa Stories by Lulu Delacre Page B

glows as everyone gathers around him to hear his tale.
    â€œWhen you are finished, Señor,” Flor adds, “I have a story for Carmen Teresa, too.”
    â€œÂ¡Ah! No, no, damas primero,” says Abeulito. “Ladies first.”
    â€œAlways a gentleman,” replies Doña Josefa. “And who knows, maybe we’ll all take a turn. Why don’t you start, Flor?” As soon as we are comfortably settled around the dining room table, Flor begins her story.

Ever since I was a little girl in Guatemala City, my family has made an alfombra for Holy Week. Alfombras are beautiful carpets handmade from colored sawdust and fresh flowers. Every Palm Sunday morning, we make an alfombra on the street right in front of our house. That week, dozens of processions walk by. Porters, who carry splendid statues of Jesus and Mary, follow the pathways of beautiful carpets that are spread throughout the neighborhood. We wait for one that will cross our carpet. At last it comes! And for us, it is like the Lord Himself has walked upon our carpet.
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    One Friday during Lent, when I was twelve, we had just finished Mamá’s baclao a la vizcaína , her delicious codfish stew, when Abuelo Marco asked me to do something I had only dreamed of doing.
    â€œFlor,” he said, smoothing his mustache that was now the color of his weathered straw hat. “Since you arethe oldest grandchild, how would you like to make the design for the carpet this year?”
    â€œOh, Abuelo!” I shouted joyfully. Ever since I could walk, I had helped him with the carpet. When I was very young, I was only allowed to stamp on the sawdust. Later, I was allowed to help dye it. And for the past few years, I carefully sifted out what was needed for its colorful border. But I had never had the honor of making the design. I couldn’t wait to look through our well-worn collection of wooden stencils and pull out the ones I liked the best.
    I could feel the expectant stares of Abuelo, my parents, and my three little brothers as I sat on my chair, thinking. I had seen how Abuelo lovingly created new carpet designs by mixing patterns. I tried to remember sawdust carpets I had seen before and the many border stencils I knew we had stored. Then, I decided just what I wanted to do. I took some paper and a pencil, and started to draw. Abuelo Marco nodded in approval when I was finished.
    â€œI think we’ll have a beautiful carpet, Flor,” he said.
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    The following day, Papá and all three of my brothers drove to the sawmill to get the sawdust. The owner of the sawmill gave away most of his sawdust just formaking carpets for Holy Week. When Papá returned with twenty large sacks, we all helped carry them into the house. For the next several hours my mother and I stirred the sawdust in big vats of dye. We made batches of red, white, green, and black. The last thing I did that afternoon was to trace the new flying dove pattern on plywood. Papá cut out the stencil. I could already imagine the dove in the middle of a golden background surrounded by borders of flowers and geometric shapes.
    By Thursday, we had everything ready to make the carpet. And on Palm Sunday at dawn we would assemble it right in front of our house. I couldn’t wait.
    But then something terrible happened.
    When I woke up Saturday morning, the house was in chaos.
    â€œYou stay here!” I heard Papá shout. “I’ll go see what happened!”
    He ran out the door, leaving Mamá watching anxiously by the window. Doña Paca, our next-door neighbor, had heard the turmoil, and rushed over to help with my younger brothers. She was in the kitchen feeding them torrejas . They were too young to understand what was going on, but the syrupy warm bread kept them out of the way.
    â€œMamá, ¿qué pasa?” I asked sleepily. “What’s going on?”
    â€œ Ay, Flor,” Mamá wept softly as she put her rosary down.