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Osma held the little box tightly in her hands. Mamá had said it was stupid to bury a fish, but Osma had insisted. But now, standing before a shallow hole on the edge of the forest, she didn’t know what to do. The easy answer was to put the box in the hole and cover it, but was that all? Was she meant to sing a song? Pull up flowers and plant them along the edges?
Osma was old enough to remember the days where they’d first entered the Encanto. She could recall the vast number of ceremonies. The folks down the street with the blue house had lit a bonfire and toasted food in their dead’s memories. Señorita Afligida had thrown around orange petals and sang, while her friends played instruments. Señora Madrigal had commissioned painters to paint his face everywhere she could think of, from on a canvas to a tiny piece of paper which she was rumoured to carry around in a locket.
A fish wasn’t as big as a loss that the others of her village had suffered. She knew that. But Burbujas had still been very important, and was very much missed. He’d been alive for a very long time. When the Madrigal had predicted his death, she’d not believed him. But Burbujas did die. And now she wasn’t sure how to mourn him.
Osma sniffed quietly and crouched down to the hole. She couldn’t just place it in, could she? She had to do something. The early morning wind blew some of her box braids off her shoulder.
“Osma? Hi Osma, what’re you doing?”
She looked over her shoulder and frowned at the loud, bright orange dress Pepa had decided to wear. Pepa Madrigal wasn’t like her brother, but she wasn’t someone Osma knew how to deal with either. She had too much of a personality, and Osma felt like she couldn’t keep up whenever she started talking. It wasn’t that she didn’t like Pepa. She did. But she always felt like Pepa didn’t like her, because whenever they interacted it always seemed like Pepa was on the verge of a thunderstorm,
“Burbujas died. I’m laying him to rest.”
Pepa wandered to her side and eyed her and the hole with first a contemplative, then dismayed expression. “Brunito predicted this, didn’t he? I think he mentioned it.”
Her fingers fidgeted with the box. “He did.”
“I’m sorry,” Pepa said. “I know how much you loved Burbujas. I’ll miss him.”
Osma looked up at her between her eyelashes, and tried to ignore the way that tears all too suddenly welled up. It was like a dam was cracking. She looked back down at the box. Osma had done so well not to cry, and now here she was.
“Me too. I’ll miss him so much. And I don’t even know how to honour him! He was such a good fish, Pepa, and I don’t even have lanterns for him! Or a song, or a ceremony.”
Pepa was younger than her by three years. It wasn’t a very big gap, but it was big enough that they didn’t interact with each other that much. Nonetheless, Pepa was much taller than her and towered over most kids of both their ages. Her height made it so that it was very easy for Pepa to get a good view of the hole from over her crouched figure.
“Then…” Pepa scrunched her face up, and shifted her weight, then like a lightbulb she lit up and turned on her feet. “Stay here! I’ll be right back!”
Osma, despite her better judgement, decided to listen to the Madrigal girl. She settled the box on her knees and cried into her hands.
It wasn’t long before Pepa came back. By that time her tears had dried and she felt better about herself. It was like she’d cried all the emotions out. She was glad that all the tears were gone, because tearing up in front of Pepa had been very embarrassing indeed.
“I got these off of Señora Flor!” Pepa crouched down next to Osma, and shoved a bouquet of white chrysanthemums and carnations into her hands, which jostled the box on her knees ever so slightly but not enough to upset it. Unfortunately, Pepa’s excitement had made the pass over too strong, and some of the stems were bent. A few of the flowers were creased.
She couldn’t believe her eyes.
“Oh no,” Pepa said. “Oh no, oh no no no. I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to.”
The flowers were bright white, and she recognised that they must’ve been picked recently as they smelled and looked fresh. Despite the ugly bends to the perfectly posed leaves, she couldn’t help but sniff in an ugly way. Which Pepa instantly read wrong.
“I’m so sorry Osma! I promise I didn’t mean to, I was just really, you know…” She trailed off. Instead of new words, Osma heard the sound of thunder claps.
Which was bad, because Osma was most definitely not upset with Pepa.
She carefully placed the box and the flowers aside as Pepa mumbled to herself in discontent. Maybe she didn’t know Pepa too well, but she’d always been nice, if a bit awkward at times. Even if her thundering had alarmed Osma, if she was capable of such a kindness then she’d clearly been misunderstood.
Osma leaned up onto her knees and hugged Pepa tightly to her chest. Bright red hair tickled her nose. It was damp. “Thank you,” She mumbled. “Thank you so much.”
The cloud dissipated faster then it had appeared. “Oh. Well. You’re welcome.”
Osma leaned back and joyfully reached for the bouquet. She stripped the flowers of its petals, all the while a now subdued Pepa looked on with bright red ears and pink cheeks. The petals were placed around and inside the hole, and with Pepa by her side, she finally placed the box in the ground and covered it up with fresh dirt. She placed more petals on top.
They sat in silence. “He didn’t mean to, you know.”
Well, then. She looked up in surprise. Pepa was fidgeting with her fingers and looking everywhere but her. “What?”
“My brother. He just sees, he doesn’t make things happen.”
Which was something Bruno tended to say a lot himself recently. Pepa parroting him was new, though. Osma turned her attention back to the grave and chewed on her bottom lip. She wondered if Pepa had come along just to say that. She’d probably been meaning to mention it the whole time. But Osma didn’t really want to think about Pepa’s brother, not when she was still mourning Burbujas.
“Oh, no!”
Osma’s eyes widened when she caught sight of a stray curl hit her in the nose. Pepa apologised fiercely. “I’m sorry! I’m thundering again!”
“Why are you always storming when you’re near me?” Osma complained. At least she wasn’t choked up anymore, although being annoyed wasn’t a much better emotion. But it was true, wasn’t it? Pepa had a lot of emotions; everyone knew that. But she was always so much calmer around other people. It was only around Osma that her powers acted up every few seconds.
Pepa whined and held down her hair. “Because it’s you!”
Osma exhaled harshly, utterly confused, but took the statement as it was. Which was, of course, nonsensical and mad. “That doesn’t make any sense, Pepa. Listen, let’s just… let’s go get some arepas from your sister.”
Her bright orange hair fluttered down, damp, back around her frilly shoulders. Pepa’s cautious smile was very bright. “Really?”
She scratched her nose and looked down.
“I don’t see why not. You got Burbujas flowers. Why wouldn’t I want to eat arepas with you?”
“I didn’t think you liked me,” Pepa mumbled. “You never meet my eyes when I’m around you.”
“That’s not it. I’m just nervous.”
And now that she’d pointed it out, Osma just had to look up into her eyes. And Pepa’s eyes were lovely and bright, as well as piercing in their intensity.
“Well, don’t be nervous,” She said bluntly.
Startled, she let out a sharp laugh and was so embarrassed by it that she covered her mouth with both hands. Pepa grinned widely, sharp and foxlike, and Osma couldn’t help but wonder why she hadn’t given Pepa more of a chance in the past. She was so lovely.
A rainbow stretched above their heads, and Osma couldn’t help but feel like all of the suns in the universe couldn’t possibly shine as brightly as Pepa Madrigal.