Tonight, mi cielo, Pátzcuaro holds the stars as gently as your hands once cradled mine. I leave cempasúchil from the gate to our door— a little sunlit road for you to find. Across the lake, Janitzio keeps its candles; their trembling gold lies scattered on the blue. “Ándale, corazón,” I whisper to the darkness, “the house is warm, and we are waiting for you.” There’s pan de muerto, corundas wrapped and steaming, your favorite cup beside your empty chair. For once, I let the kitchen fill with laughter; it sounds like something you have left us there. Ay, mi querido, dawn will pale the petals, and I will have to let the candles die. But first, sit close. The coffee still is waiting. Tonight, no tengo prisa for goodbye.