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El Día de los Muertos and an Oidhche-Shamhna, The same time of year that the Dead may visit the living; Bonfires, lanterns, fortunetelling, divinations, delicacies For the Gaels as they dodge enemy spirits And reunite with loved ones; Ofrendas, pán de muertos, offerings for the departed, Papel picado, delicacies, music, family reunion For Méxicanos as they welcome loved ones home As the living and dead mingle for one night. La Llorona and a’ Bhean-Shìth, Sisters from two different continents; A’ Bhean-Shìth, or “banshee” as anglos spell her name, The woman of the fairy folk who guards the old families, Her anguished wailing and lamentations through the night Serves to warn “her” family that one of them will soon die; La Llorona, her origin varies across países hispanohablantes, But that she drowned her children prevents her From entering Heaven until she finds them, Those who hear her crying “Ay, mis hijos…!” will soon die. For all our differences and even distrust of those

Living in California is not without a price, Nothing ever is. One must pay a price of wildfires and drought, Two cyclical forces natural to the ecology. Controlled burning that would stop fire-storms, Too many people live in a place And a controlled fire cannot cleanse it; people Would raise complaints that it’s not safe. Thickets and ditches, they’re thick with dead plants, Dead trees impeding saplings, But there are too many residents who won’t tolerate it; That would threaten houses and countryside. It’s either controlled burning close to houses Or disastrous fire-storms. There’s always a price, a difficult choice to negotiate, Timely negotiation is urgent to us now. Loisgeamh Stamhanta No Doineann-Teine Cha thig còmhnaidh air California gun fhiach, ˆ-ˆ--ˆ-ˆ--ˆ- Cha thig gnothach lurach sam bith. ˆ-ˆ-ˆ-ˆ- Feumaimh neach pàigheamh fiach leis an roidean ‘s tart, ˆ--ˆ-ˆ-ˆ-ˆ-- Dith’s neart cuairteach dùth don àrainn. Loisgeamh stamhanta gum bacamh doineannan-teine, Tha cus

I am cautious about sharing my interests with others. I have a reason that I don’t share my whole world. People won’t understand or appreciate them still, I try and time and again I’m disappointed. I am cautious about sharing my interests with others I offer my art and poetry and they don’t impress. I wish for constructive criticism that I don’t hear, My art seems that it’s still not good enough…! I am cautious about sharing my interests with others Again since I suspect that others won’t get meaning from it, Nobody but I get meaning from it, my creation, I know that my interests are esoteric, what’s wrong…? I am cautious about sharing my interests with others My style is not conventional, I’m eccentric and hasty In my own enthusiasm to share what I made, And I don’t get the assessment that I hoped from others. I am cautious about sharing my interests with others Is my art too particular, is it still not good enough? I wish for constructive criticism that I don’t hear, How will

“I never meant to hurt you so badly, mis cariños,” Alma’s voice was dry and weak, “I’ve made so many mistakes. I did what I did with the best intentions, but it doesn’t excuse…” “I understand, Abuela,” Mirabel’s eyes glistened as she held Alma’s fragile hand, “I understand why you did what you did. It doesn’t erase everything, it doesn’t erase all those years of feeling like I was a disappointment, but I understand. “You had to watch Abuelo die right in front of you and your babies, you had to be strong for them and for the other refugees. Nobody taught you how to handle the Miracle.” The rest of the family gasped with emotion at this reminder of where the Miracle began. None of them had been unscathed in all those years, but at least their matriarch was finally talking about it. They could finally understand her reasons, even if it still hurt. “How did you become so wise, querida?” Julieta asked her daughter as she tried to compose herself, although Bruno and Pepa were not managing