We sit huddled on a wooden bench overlooking the fishing pier in Port Ballí—my dear niece Andaluz and cousin Ladislao as well as Pipo and Migdalia. The sea breeze rustles the palm fronds and the feathers of the laughing gulls searching for crabs on the beach, but it leaves our hair unbothered. My long purple skirt hangs still, despite the wind picking up and filling the air with the smell of salt.
We watch Mari walk to the middle of the pier, a rectangular black case in her hand. She’s accompanied by Keisha and Juan Carlos as well as by another boy, each carrying fishing poles. Juan Carlos hands the boy a pair of orange-framed glasses, and they all laugh when he puts them on and wiggles his eyebrows. While they ready their bait to entice the schools of flounder and pinfish circling in the water, Mari takes out a violin from her case and adjusts the strings.
“I wanna fish too!” Ladislao says, clapping.
I put my finger to my lips and shush him. “Leave them be. We’ll just watch.”
Pipo smiles and twirls his fingers in the air, a soft melody floating on the breeze to the beat of his tapping foot.
Migdalia chuckles. “Just listen. Let her play.”
As Keisha, Juan Carlos, and the other boy toss their fishing lines into the water, Mari begins to play a lively song, the notes dancing down the wooden planks of the pier, across the sand, and around us on the bench. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, listening to the music.
Mari sways back and forth as she plays the song. When it ends, the smattering of people who are fishing on the pier clap. One man, wearing a Port Ballí Middle School baseball cap, approaches her and pats her on the shoulder. As they chat, Mari smiles broadly.
“Looks like someone’s getting another chance to try out for mariachi,” Andaluz says.
“Now that all that bad luck nonsense is over, I know she’ll do much better,” Pipo replies. “She’s not the only one who got a second chance.”
I nod and look at Keisha, spinning around to show off her jacket with “Houston Daggers” embroidered on the back.
As Migdalia and Ladislao sit next to me, their feet slowly fade, the cracked sidewalk visible beneath them. I examine my own hands and see the purple threads of my skirt through my red nails.
“We won’t be here much longer, will we?” Ladislao asks, staring at the kids on the pier, memorizing every detail.
I shake my head as Migdalia’s gray hair fades in the setting sun. “I don’t believe so. But it’s for the best, isn’t it? We did our part, and now it’s time to go back,” I say.
Pipo grips the fabric on his pants, as if hanging on to himself might make him remain on the beach a little longer. “I wish we had more time. I always seem to want more time,” he says, his voice catching in his throat. He starts to rise from the bench, but Migdalia stops him.
“Leave them be. They’ve already said their goodbyes. They don’t need to see us disappear,” she says.
Pipo’s shoulders slump. The fabric of his pants slowly fades into the wooden slats of the bench.
Andaluz waves her hand, and a small wave moves unnaturally against the tide and toward Juan Carlos standing on the pier. He pulls on his fishing pole, jumping up and down as he reels in a silvery brown striped pinfish. Mari, Keisha, and the other boy slap him on the back and give him high fives.
“You cheated,” Ladislao tells Andaluz, winking.
She shrugs and smiles.
I clear my throat as the purple of my skirt lightens and dissolves in the air. “We’ll always be here, you know. In our own way.”
Pipo looks at me, his eyebrows knitted in confusion. His dark brown hair dims and dulls as it becomes transparent.
“Every time Mari plays a song, you’ll be there,” I say. “Every time she tells a story, I’ll be there. Every time she does something brave or silly, Migdalia and Ladislao will be there. Every time she stands up for herself, Andaluz will be there. We may not be walking around, breathing their air, but we’ll remain. We’ll be remembered.”
Pipo takes a deep breath. His torso fades into the bench, and he gives me one last look. “I suppose that’s enough. Don’t you think so, Mami?”
Migdalia nods and smiles as her pale green dress fades into the air and she disappears.
Ladislao chuckles and waves furiously at the Super Ojos standing on the pier. But it’s too late. His arms turn to mist, and the breeze catches his form, sending it away in the air.
Andaluz stands and brushes her hands on her blue skirt. “I guess it’s time to go, isn’t it?” she asks.
Slowly, she walks barefoot across the sand to the edge of the water. A small wave laps at her feet, but before it retreats, she’s gone, carried by the tide.
I reach for Pipo’s hand, but it’s already vanished. Looking down, I see my own arm slowly disappearing.
“Goodbye, Fautina,” Pipo says, his sparkling brown eyes vanishing in the setting sun until he’s completely gone.
“Goodbye, Pipo,” I say to the sea breeze.
I look one last time at the Super Ojos on the pier. Their laughter carries over the crashing waves as they fling their fishing lines into the water again.
But Mari lifts her head to the wind coming off the waves, closing her eyes and breathing in the salty air.
As if sensing something she knows is there but can’t quite find, she gazes up and down the beach, past skittering crabs and prowling shorebirds.
Until she finds me.
Her eyes fall on my fading form, and she lifts her hand in a small wave. I want to wave back, to say goodbye to my great-great-granddaughter, but all she would see is the clump of tangled cordgrass behind me.
The pull in my stomach taking me away from the beach grows, and I smile at Mari as the wind plays in her dark brown hair. She nods and turns away from me and back to her friends as they point to the schools of fish darting in the water.
And in the next moment, I fade and am gone, only a memory in the minds of those I leave behind, only a name in a family tree.
And that’s how I’ll stay.
Until another story is written down, another memory is passed from parent to child, words in a never-ending book telling the tales of those who remain in our hearts.