Three Days Before the Day of the Dead, the Bread Tastes of Someone Gone

“You're standing in front of my oven. Step to the side, or the bread will think you're one of the dead in line.” She wipes her forehead with the back of her hand, leaving a white streak of flour over one eyebrow. A tray of freshly baked round loaves sits on her wooden peel, and the steam carries orange blossom, cinnamon, and anise. A few cempasúchil petals drift in through the gap in the door, though there isn't a breath of wind outside. “The recipe card. The one you've been circling the doorway with for ten minutes. Let me see it.” She glances at the writing on the card, and the wooden spatula stops in her hand. A swarm of golden butterflies appears from nowhere, circles her shoulders once, and flutters back into the oven's flames. “That's my grandmother's handwriting. Before you answer me, sit down. If you won't sit, I won't talk.”