The Sweet Gift

Briiiiiing, riiiinng, Briiing, riiing. A bicycle bell rang out quietly in the distance. Elena was walking along the dead street, back to her rented bungalow. Her bright yellow dress twirling as she danced along the dirt road, holding her white billowy sunhat in its place. She was heady with her new experiences in Michoacán, and a little intoxicated. This heavenly vacation had been on her bucket list, and she was more than elated to be here.

A bicycle bell rang out behind her, and she let out a small squeal of surprise as she spun about to confront the rider. He had startled her with his silent approach.

“Perdoname, senorita,” an old man gently apologized. “Paleta Fresca?” He asked, presenting her with a frozen treat wrapped in freezer paper.

Elena didn’t understand a lot of Spanish, but she was observant enough to know that he was a peddler asking for money. She was a tourist, and she quickly discovered how that made her attractive to every person in the small town who had something to sell. The oversized sunhat was a good example as to how far she could succumb to their thralls.

“No. No thank you,” she said, waving her hand to shoo him away.

“Un Regalo,” he said, shoving the treat into her hand. “A gift.” He rode off quickly, as if in fright of her.

Elena let her hat flop as she opened the paper. Inside was a frozen strawberry and cream bar, melting in its wrapper in the palm of her hand. She could smell the allure of the strawberries carried on the evening breeze, as if they were still plump and ripe beneath the sun, heavy on their stems. They must have been freshly picked by the street vendor that afternoon.

Thin fingers reached out to touch Elena’s hand, startling her. She tipped her floppy hat back to look at who was with her in the dark. A person of beauty, pale as moonlight with hair black as a raven’s wing and eyes of ebony, looked back at her. They had angelic features, thin, tall and frail, yet powerfully soothing with their gentle smile. They wore a knee-length white gown, traditionally embroidered Michoacán attire, with red pantaloons underneath, trimmed with lace. Their hair was braided into many long braids.

“I’m sorry, but I believe that delicacy was meant for me,” they said, with a sweet breath that reminded Elena of the smell of rain before it falls.

“Oh. But the old man.” Elena looked about for the vendor. He was gone. She was alone with this ambiguously fluid person.

“The old man made a grave error,” said the angel.

“Well, it looks delicious,” said Elena, giggling softly as the sticky strawberry cream ran off the paper and down her arm. “Here, you may have it,” she said, offering it to the stranger.

The angel accepted the offering, taking Elena’s hand along with the sweet treat they gently guided her down the lane.

“Do you have a name?” The angel prodded.

“Oh,” she giggled, her hat bouncing along for the ride, “I’m Elena.”

“Like the guiding light? My name is Sharatanga, like the moonlight. We’re like two beacons in the dark; and now I understand the old man’s mistake,” smiled Sharatanga, with a sweeping glance at Elena’s slim figure.

“Sharatanga, a beautiful name,” said Elena. “Where are you taking me?”

“Up ahead, there is an alcove. We can sit and share our sweet.”

“In the shrine?” Elena paused. “I was told not to.”

“It’s about to rain,” Sharatanga said, pulling Elena down the hill and into the festive Mexican décor of the Santa Muerte shrine. Santa Muerte, the death saint, was a small skeleton sitting upon a golden throne, dressed in the fashion of the Perepecha people, surrounded by offerings of fresh fruit, nuts, coffee beans, and tokens of all sorts. Elena felt like an alien invader. The tiny space was fit for two and more. The bright colors of the shrine splashed about as the candle flames flickered in and out with the stormy wind. Freshly cut flowers filled the air with their perfume, as the rain came pouring down above them.

“Michoacán is the soul of Mexico,” said Sharatanga.

“I read the brochure,” said Elena. The two laughed out loud.

“Let’s not forget our gift,” Sharatanga held out the melting creamy treat and split it into two parts, handing half to Elena.

Elena opened the parchment paper and licked the melting cream. It was scrumptious and brought her back to a time in her youth when things seemed more innocent. With her tongue, she plucked out a strawberry and held it in her mouth to savor the sweet taste.

Their special moment was interrupted by an elderly man who had come to leave an offering at the shrine. Elena thought that he would look at them in contempt for using lady death’s shrine as a place to commune and laugh, instead, he welcomed their presence and extended an invitation to dance with him. The three of them danced and laughed until another visitor arrived.

A weeping woman carrying a baby came to pray to Santa Muerte. The three waited silently for her to finish. After praying, she offered up the baby to Sharatanga.

Sharatanga took the baby and held her carefully, rocking the child gently before passing the baby to the old man. The man bowed to the mother and solemnly retreated to the back of the shrine with the child. A door opened and swallowed them into the darkness. The mother fled the shrine, wailing loudly.

Elena had kept silent, but now she looked towards Sharatanga. “What was that?” She asked

“I think you already know,” said Sharatanga.

“Oh,” Elena said, looking down at her aging hands. “I must have forgotten.”

“I know,” said Sharatanga, as they gently embraced the old woman.

“It was a wonderful gift,” Elena said. “To fulfill my last wish of being young again, for just a day, before taking me away.”