Chapter Text
There is a bedtime story Luisa’s father always tells her, a story about his great-grandparents.
Mamá tells her different stories; sometimes fairy tales that she knows by heart, or sometimes stories that she reads out of one of Luisa’s picture books. But Papá always tells her the same story. He likes to tell it, and Luisa likes to listen to it.
“Once upon a time there was a man named Pedro and a woman named Alma,” he says. “They were my great-grandparents.”
He takes out the pictures he has, the ones he shows her every time he tells her this story. His bisabuelo Pedro has dark hair, faint wrinkles around his eyes, and a small, kind smile. He looks a little like Papá.
His bisabuela Alma is much older; with her hair shining silver, in a beautiful embroidered maroon dress, and a stately but loving look on her face, she looks almost like a queen in a few of the stories Mamá tells her.
“They lived in a little village. They didn’t have very much, and they were worried that the fighting in some parts of their country would come to them. But they always had enough to eat, and they were happy with each other. And in their little house, under the warm candlelight from the candles Pedro sold in his shop, is where their triplets were born.”
Three more pictures: a woman with gray-black hair, a paler woman with fading red hair, and a man with hair as dark as his father’s, all in green.
“Those aren't babies,” she says, like she does every time.
Papá laughs, like he does every time. “No, because these are the triplets all grown up. This is my Tío Bruno, and this is my Tía Pepa, and this is my abuela, Julieta.”
It’s funny to think of Papá having an abuela.
“But then,” and Papá’s voice was quiet and sad now, “the fighting in other parts of the country came to their peaceful little village. They were attacked, and they had to run away with whatever they could carry in their hands. My bisabuela took their babies, all three of them in her hands. My bisabuelo took a candle to light their way, so they and the other people from the village could escape. But then the soldiers caught up with them.”
Even though Luisa knows how the story goes, and that this happened a long time ago, she always feels a chill when Papá gets up to this part.
“Pedro died. He ran towards the soldiers, to try to slow them down. He knew he was going to die, but he went anyway, so that his family, his wife and his babies and all the other people from the village would be able to get away to safety. And they killed him.”
Pedro’s picture vanishes, carefully tucked away inside Papá’s pocket, leaving an empty spot on the blanket.
“But through his death, he gave his family life. At the moment he died, there was a miracle.” A distant glow in Papá’s eyes, longing, full of remembered wonders. “The mountains split, forming a safe place for them to live. The soldiers couldn’t enter the valley. No danger could. They would be safe there forever. We were blessed with a refuge in which to live.”
“An encanto,” she finishes, like she always does.
“An encanto,” he repeats. “Alma and the triplets found a magical house to live in, a house that grew right out of the earth, that could move its floors and grow rooms. And that wasn’t all of the miracle. On their fifth birthday, the triplets received their gifts, and rooms to go with them.”
“I wish I could see the magic rooms.”
He chuckles fondly. “Maybe you will one day, Luisita. The oldest, Julieta, got the gift of healing. Whatever she cooked healed the person who ate it. No one was ever sick or hurt, because all they have to do is eat something she cooked and they’re well again. The middle, Pepa, got the gift of weather. If she was happy, the sun shone. If she was sad, it rained. And everything in between. And the youngest, Bruno, was able to see the future.”
“And who else?” Luisa demands, even though she already knows.
Papá smiles. “And their children received magical gifts too.”
More pictures came out of his pocket. He showed her them every time he told her this story, the pictures of the people he said were family but who she only knew from photographs. “Pepa married Félix, and had Dolores, Camilo, and Antonio. Dolores can hear everything. Camilo can change to look like anyone he’s ever seen. And Antonio can speak to animals.”
“I wish I could hear everything,” she says. “Then I could know everything!”
Papá laughs again. “It would get exhausting, mija. Tía Dolores gets a lot of headaches, and she hears a lot of things she has no business knowing.”
“Like what?”
“Well, if she has no business knowing them, then you and I certainly don’t either, do we?”
“Aww.” Luisa folds her arms. “I wish I could talk to animals, then. That would be fun.”
“You don’t wish you could turn into other people? Or control the weather?”
“No. I just want to be me. And if I was in charge of the weather everyone would be mad at me if it rained.”
“You’re very smart, mijita! You’ve got it all figured out, and at your age, too!”
“Don’t be silly, Papá.”
“I would never be silly about something like this, Luisita. But now, for the part you’re waiting for…”
She grins, bouncing up and down on the bed until Papá tells her to lay back down. He takes out four more pictures.
“Julieta married Agustín.” A man wearing glasses, with an infectious grin. “They had Isabela.” This is one of Luisa’s favorite pictures to look at, because Isabela’s dress looks like it’s made entirely out of flower petals. She has some in her hair, too. “She can grow plants. Flowers, vegetables, trees, she can make them grow in only a few minutes. And they also had Mirabel. She doesn’t have a gift, but that’s because she’s in charge of the family instead.” Mirabel has glasses like her father, and curly hair, and a contented, knowing, happy smile. “And they also had..…my mamá, Luisa.”
“That’s my name!” Luisa says, like she always does.
The picture of Abuela Luisa shows a tall woman, as tall as the doorframe she is standing beside. She wore her brown hair, the same shade as Papá’s, in a bun, and her hazel eyes were also the same color as Papá’s.
“My mamá is strong enough to lift anything,” and she even looked strong, in her picture, with arms and legs that were longer than Papá’s were. “Anything at all.”
“Anything? Like you?”
A laugh. “ Sí. She can carry me, she can carry two people, she can carry boulders and fallen trees and entire buildings without even getting out of breath.”
“Like our house?”
“Bigger than our house, mija!”
“Wow!”
“And then my mamá had me.” All the pictures disappear, replaced by Papá’s face, and he covers her face with kisses, scratchy beard tickling her cheek, until she’s giggling, which doesn’t take long. “And I gave you the same name as my mamá, because I love my mamá and I love you, and I want you to be connected because you live far apart.”
“And what can you do?” Luisa wants to know.
Papá doesn’t answer for a moment. He never answers right away. “Words are powerful, mija,” he says, like he says every time, even though that doesn’t answer her question.
“That’s what Mamá says,” she says sleepily. Everything seems fuzzy and very far away. Luisa always falls asleep before she can ask him what that has to do with magic miracle gifts.
There’s also a song he likes to sing. It’s always the same song, so she thinks it’s his favorite. It’s sad, and slow, melancholy, but also hopeful, and it’s beautiful. Luisa doesn’t know all the words. She keeps meaning to ask him to teach her the words, but she never remembers. Sometimes, after he finishes telling her the story, when she’s lying half-awake and half-asleep, with her eyes closed, slowly drifting away into the soft fuzzy cocoon of sleep, he sings it under his breath, or simply hums the tune. Luisa always tries to stay awake as long as she can to listen to it. She rarely manages to stay awake before the end. This might be why she doesn’t know all of the words.
It’s a very pretty song. It’s about two caterpillars who hold on to each other but have to let go to find their way in the world to the wonders waiting for them. And then they turned into butterflies. Something like that, anyway. Whenever she remembers to ask Papá to teach it to her, she’ll be able to know what it means.
Whenever Papá sings to her as she falls asleep, she dreams of golden butterflies.