Septembers and Octobers we used to find
sequins on the soles of our bare feet,
feathers in the laundry.
Dad and Mom made their own costumes
every year before they met,
and every year after,
except the year she was gone.
They were always closest in the fall,
him poring over her sketches,
her handing him beads, a hot glue gun, a needle,
gifting him splinters of red glass
to glue on his shoes, wands, masks.
The past few years,
Mom and Dad
made costumes of all the
Aztec gods.
This year, they’ve made nothing.
This year, no one needs a costume.
Masks of Quetzalcoatl, Xochipilli,
big-beaked and feathered,
stare down at me,
line the hallway,
and just like you never really know
what’s on the inside of anyone
or any family,
on the outside
they are powerful, beautiful gods.
On the inside they are lifeless:
faces covered with fabric,
bones carved from Styrofoam.