I am who I am because of Graciela and her bright red sash and because of her Abuela, the old woman with the melted candlestick.
The old woman who used to braid her granddaughter’s hair in log rope twists and drag the candle down the aisle at the old Spanish church and pray to the La Virgen for the day when her life would be worth something. She added wax and remolded it when it was still warm from midnight prayers, keeping it there, keeping the promise of baptism against her breast.
Do you renounce Satan? I do, I do.
Do you renounce this world and all its lies? I do, I do.