They laughed easily, like falling muslin. He made her Portugese dishes, full of red and spice and lime. She made him coconut rice and mai fun. They made love together, and knew their child would be beautiful.

Grace Tai Valdez was exquisite as a child of eight. Warm skin, the colour of yuca, black eyes, curving with the almond slant of her mothers. Black hair, like ink, like water, trailing down. Her lips full like swollen berries, and an angels laugh.

Such a pity she was dead.

Family came, gathered around the tiny coffin like ants. Miguel wept for his daughter, and held Lin. Everything felt like thick ice to her now, like frosted glass.
But as it happens, we move on. The Valdez’ gave birth to another baby girl, Josephine. Perhaps not as pretty as the angelic Gracie, for her lips were thin, and her jaw angular. Her hair held too much curl, and she had inherited the amber golden eyes of her great grandfather.

“Ai…she is my mother’s father,” her pa was wont to say. ” And a bitter man he was.”