The Fiesta Dress: A Quinceañera Tale

The neighbors gasp when I climb to the top of the pecan tree before anyone can stop me.

“Lolo,” Papá says, “you’re always on the move.”

“With fast feet like yours,” Mamá says, “it’s hard to keep up.”

But while everyone prepared for Eva’s quinceañera, no one noticed me.

The damas didn’t as they swished and swirled in their bright dresses. They whirred, curled, brushed, and combed as they dressed for the fiesta. They never saw me patting clouds of powder on my face.

In the kitchen, no one noticed me. The tías didn’t as they scooped, patted, wrapped, and tied, making the biggest batch of tamales ever. They never saw me slipping one into my pocket.

In the backyard, no one noticed me. The tíos didn’t as they unraveled, tossed, tugged, and twisted strands of lights over the patio and through the trees. They never saw me swinging from the pecan tree.