ABSTRACT
Every year, in early November, the life of the dead assumed primary importance for Filomena and me, and in preparation for our commemoration, we were making our purchases at the mercado. All around us, pails of flowers-mostly zempoalxochitles, the color of the sun-were displayed, as one vendor after another tried to entice us with the same statement: "!Flores para los muertos! !Flores para los muertos!" As we walked around, my arms formed a circle around the sweetsmelling clusters of flowers that Filomena had already picked out.
