The Day of the Dead

Her Cadiz map was useless now because she knew every part of it.

Her ancient chart held lifelines, dashes, angles, seven magic symbols, dead ends, detours, forests, high rise apartment buildings, tourist offices, oceans, parks and pealing cathedrals.

Her word worn projection designated plazas, beaches, monuments, theaters, parking lots, banks, cafes, hotels, hostels, hospitals, libraries, universities, markets, bus stops, taxi stands, railroads, bus stations, antiquities, cemeteries and Benjumeda #3, Apartment #2, Cadiz, 11003 where she worked on her loom.

On the Day of The Dead white haired widows waited for a bus marked ‘Cemetario’ at the COMES station near the harbor. Shrouded in black they carried bouquets of fresh carnations, daisies, daffodils, roses, white forget-me-nots and food to share with their dearly departed soul mates.

One ancient woman juggled wine bottles. They talked in muted voices and paid their fare. The bus rolled past a heavily armed statue of a Spanish soldier on his bronze horse penetrating the sky with his saber discovering Central America.

The Atlantic Ocean edged into Spanish alleys sniffing at Roman ruins. Clouds danced above the ocean giving birth to small powerful tributaries searching for a source of renewal.