At home, I’d probably be watching TV with Mom on the couch while Dad sits grading papers in his recliner. But Josefina’s family seems cozy, too. Tía Dolores is seated at the piano in the corner. With beautiful, sweeping motions, she plays scales up and down. Josefina is beaming with pride. It’s beautiful. I try to nod, as if I’m hearing a piano for the first time. Francisca is mending a torn shirt, and Clara has a large piece of cloth spread on her lap. She’s using a big needle to embroider flowers all around the edges. I bend to admire it and tell her it’s beautiful, even though I can barely see it in the dim firelight. She asks me if I learned colcha as a cautiva. Colcha must be the name of the embroidery. I tell her that I never learned it. Josefina explains that Mamá taught them before she died. She was very good at it, and she even made an altar cloth for the church.

Francisca says it was damaged in a fire, but Tía Dolores helped them repair the colcha. They even added their own designs. Tía Dolores says doing colcha keeps them close to Mamá. I trace the outline of a flower on Clara’s cloth. It makes me think of happy times. I see my room in our old apartment, filled with scripts from Drama Club. Music soars from my speakers. Skyscrapers tower silvery gray against the blue sky. Josefina says they can show me the altar cloth. They’re keeping it safe here until next Christmas. Tía Dolores also helped them make a memory book to remember Mamá. She writes poems and songs Mamá used to love. And now the girls write in it, too.

Tía Dolores turns away from her piano and says that Mamá knew so many lovely poems and songs. I can see how all four sisters lean into Tía Dolores. She says words keep special memories alive. She rises and caresses Josefina’s cheek.

Josefina jumps up and exclaims she’ll get the memory book. I know I’d love to see it. Tía Dolores says prayers are soon, so Josefina doesn’t have much time. She asks me whether I’d like to see the memory book or the altar cloth.