We did not give the rich man and his bride all our flowers. There were mariposas and hummingbirds to think of. So we left the Mexican sage; the purple velvet of the petals was too heavy anyway, and they were a favorite of the violet sabrewings and fork-tailed emeralds. Same with the honeysuckle, and the pineapple and tangerine sage, which would not survive the flight anyway. We left the opuntia flowers; the weight of their closed buds would make them too difficult to send airborne. We gave him our yellow and rust-red and purple marigolds, but kept the orange and brown to ourselves, because no village should ever give up all they have of cempasúchil.

I volunteered to be among the women picking the plumeria, those tiny white and yellow flowers whose perfume grows stronger at night, and the delicate pink and green pouches of the lady’s slippers. These are the flowers that sting and redden the skin if you handle them for too long, and I wanted pain on my fingers to distract me from the pain in my chest and my ankles.

I did not wear gloves, the ones the lawyer had demanded be provided. I wanted to keep that pain that only went as deep as my skin, that might fade with a little ungüento and a few days’ time. It let me pretend my ankles might heal so quickly, that I might dance again, so furiously that any pain would escape my notice.

But when you saw the backs of my hands bleeding from the flower petals’ sting, you must have asked my bisabuela about me. Because that night, with the soap smell of yucca flowers in the air, you happened to be taking a walk that passed down my great-grandmother’s street.

You must have known I would be where I always was that time of night, leaning against the front of the house, breathing the flower-laced air while my great-grandmother watched her static-y TV. (My father had bought her a new one, which she instantly sold, not trusting it, as though it were a wild horse.)

You took a deep breath, either of the plumeria or simply of the night air.

“I can still play,” you said, “but only very, very slowly.”

And before I thought much about what I would say back, I was sighing a resigned sigh, matching your deep breath, mirroring your words.

“I can still dance,” I said, “but only very, very carefully.”

Then my bisabuela heard you outside and insisted you come in, because to her mind you were worryingly thin and sad, and needed chilaquiles to fatten you up and chiles to brighten your spirit.