Sacred heart with flames on the chest

Tomás brought the heart round this morning, wrapped in a feed sack. He cut it from a biscuit tin he found behind the church, beat it flat with the hammer his father used on the ox bells, and set a ring of nail heads around the edge so it would catch the lamplight like the one in your mother's shrine. The paint was the last of the red we keep for saints' days. He wanted to give it flames as well, but the orange had run dry, so I told him the heart was enough for a girl going north.

At the crossing at Tijuana the guard turned your papers over twice and asked what was wrapped in the cloth. Your aunt says he unfolded it, looked at the heart for a long moment, then folded it back with more care than he had given the passports. Maybe she only wants to believe that. Still, I picture you standing in that queue with the morning sun flat on the concrete and that small red heart in your palm, and it steadies me more than the candle does.

When you are settled, paint the flames yourself. Use gold where the light touches the top and let the orange climb. Draw the lines radiating out from it, black and sharp, the way Tomás drew them on the shutters. Nobody needs to see the heart to know it is ours.

Light a candle for us on Sunday. I will do the same here, and we will meet at the same hour in the same light.

Papá