Gaz — Candles

The sweet aroma of pan de muerto (bread of the dead) was abundant inside the house, vibrant colors covered most of the living room, and togetherness was a key part of the organization.

A couple of knocks caught everyone's attention.

"Are you sure we brought everything?" Gaz murmured.

—Yes, I'm sure—you ran a hand over her forearm.

The door opened and one of your aunts greeted them.

"Daughter! Come in, come in. We thought you weren't coming," she said with a big smile. "Is this your boyfriend? You have a good eye."

—He's my boyfriend, his name is Kyle.

-Nice to meet you...

No sooner had he finished introducing himself than a group of ladies formed around him, some looking at him with intrigue and others with curiosity.

—What a handsome man you got yourself, daughter!

—Is he from here? He looks a lot like my friend's neighbor's son.

—Don't you have a brother? He would be a great match for my daughter.

—He's definitely a gringo! His accent isn't Latino, much less his name.

Dozens of questions about his history, profession, hometown, ancestry, and other details about Kyle were the main topic of conversation all night. However, when it came time to help decorate the altar, it all turned into a lesson on how to decorate candles.

—Do you know what acrylic paint is like, son? —asked an aunt, filling the table with paint pots.

"Yes, I last used it in elementary school," Kyle replied.

—Aunt Amanda, he's a foreigner, not an alien.

"Well, daughter, who knows if the paintings are different there," she replied, downplaying it.

"Won't I get my clothes dirty?" Kyle said, worried about soiling the clothes he had taken so much effort to choose.

That comment was the last thing she said before they put a floral-patterned apron on her, probably stolen from one of the other ladies in the home.

Everything seemed ridiculously surreal. Your boyfriend, an impeccable sergeant, taking painting classes on votive candle holders taught by your aunt, the one who had dreamed so much of being a teacher.