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"And when you wake up on your eleventh birthday, you expect to feel eleven, but you don't. You open your eyes, and everything's just like yesterday, only it's today. And you don't feel eleven at all."
― Sandra Cisneros, “Eleven”
She turns fifteen today.
Dawn has yet to break outside her window, the world still dark and quiet.
She lays in bed a moment longer, allows herself to be selfish-selfish-selfish, and stares at the blur of green that is the nursery's ceiling.
Her limbs are heavy, filled with sand. She struggles to breathe, she's drowning, and her lungs feel shriveled in her chest.
If she never left this room, would anyone notice?
If they tried to rouse her and she never awoke, would they care?
Then the moment passes, and she forces herself to rise from her bed. The floorboards are cool beneath her feet.
Her primito, Antonio, is little more than a heap of haphazard limbs and precarious pillows where he sleeps steadily across the room. Gently, so gently, she rearranges limbs and bed-things alike, presses soft kisses to his brow, and slips from the room entirely.
Like a little mouse, she scurries silently through hallways and past closed doors– they're always closed to her.
Whispers quiet greetings to Casita, who greets her with the soft flutter of a shutter or a tile.
To her family, who still sleep soundly in their beds.
And always, always, always to Abuelo Pedro's portrait.
Sometimes, she likes to imagine that if she strains her hearing hard enough, she can hear a small voice whisper in the breeze that gently flows through Casita's halls: "Buenos días, Mirabel."
The cocina is empty this morning, as it is every morning, and despite her mother's absence, it feels welcoming.
Slowly, she readies things for Desayuno. It is only her and Casita in these early hours just before daybreak, and there is plenty of time before her family awakens.
She pours herself a cafecito and takes in the slow rising dawn. She watches as the sky morphs steadily from dark blue to pale orange.
"Today will be a good day," she whispers to herself in the quiet of the cocina.
Isabela and Dolores had turned fifteen mere months apart.
Mirabel had heard as the two of them had begged and begged and pleaded with Abuela Alma for a joint fiesta de quince años.
If turning fifteen by yourself was fun, they had reasoned, what could be better than celebrating together?
Mirabel had watched as Abuela had cupped each of their faces in her hands and smiled warmly. Had listened to the indulgence in her voice as she told them, "Yes."
Casita and the village had been busier than ever in preparation for the dual quince.
Isabela had let her flowers grow rampant and wild in her excitement. Splashes of vibrant color and dizzying patterns trailed behind her wherever she wandered.
Dolores hemmed and hawed, pouting at the tight-lipped secrecy the village and her family kept both in and out of her presence.
Papa helped Mama in the cocina while she and Camilo had made birthday cards filled with dried flowers for each girl.
“Feliz Cumpleaños!” The village had sung.
"Feliz Cumpleaños!" Her mother and Tia Pepa had exclaimed, smothering the girls with kisses.
“Feliz Cumpleaños,” Abuela had announced with pride.
"Feliz Cumpleaños," Mirabel had said quietly, hugging her sister and cousin as tight as her eight-year-old arms would allow.
"Just this once, because it's my birthday after all," Isabela had assured her as a crown of flowers sprung to life in Mirabel's hair with a wave of her sister's hand.
She turns fifteen today.
The morning sun has risen outside her window, the world awakening with color and sound.
"Buenos Días," her family greets as they arrive, one by one to the table– all except one, but we don't talk about Bruno, hija.
"Buenos Días," she replies, doing her best to help bring food to the table.
But her arms are like that of a newborn donkey, unstable beneath the weight of her burdens.
Luisa, she knows, means nothing by it, but it still hurts when her sister whisks platters and bowls away from her grasp and bears Mirabel's weakness for all to see.
Abuela looks at her briefly, and Mirabel can see the disappointment that lingers in her eyes. Always there for Mirabel and Mirabel alone.
The morning meal passes by her in a blur.
Abuela doles out tasks for everyone at the table, even little Antonio. But nothing for Mirabel.
Never for Mirabel.
Isabela looks at her from the opposite end of the table with something like annoyance– or maybe disgust? –when Abuela isn't looking.
'What a burden.' Her gaze says. 'What an awful, ugly, bothersome burden.'
She's left that morning with a table of dirty dishes, made empty by her family.
Made empty by her own hand grasping arepas de huevo, pan de yuca, bollo, and anything else she can manage by the handful; stuffing them into Camilo's hands and Camilo's pockets and anywhere else the boy can hide them when no one else is looking.
Her primo is always hungry, his appetite much like her sister Luisa's, even though his stature is much smaller in comparison.
"Abuela won't be happy," Camilo warns, caution and worry etched deep into his features.
Worry for himself or her, Mirabel isn't sure.
"Milk is for babies and those who work." Abuela had once said to her and Camilo when they were small and asked for a cup of the beverage for Almuerzo.
They came to realize soon enough that it was a blanket statement for anything more than what's given readily: food, affection, pride.
"Abuela's never happy," she replies because today, she allows herself to be selfish-selfish-selfish and hurries him along with a conspiring wink.
He pauses at the threshold for the briefest moment and she wonders if he forgot something, ready– always ready –to help him find it.
"Feliz Cumpleaños, Mirabel," he whispers, hugging her tight before scampering off and away from Casita.
The dining room is empty this morning, as it is every morning, and despite her family's absence, it feels welcoming.
She sorts the dishes left behind by size and carries them to the lavadero to be scrubbed clean. She wipes clean the table, crumbs and bits of food falling to the floor to be swept away later.
"Today will be a good day," she whispers to herself in the quiet of the dining room.
Luisa had turned fifteen all by herself.
But today was supposed to be fun for the village, the family, and her sister most of all.
Two whole months of Isabela's chores given to Mirabel at her request— she had begged really, but Mirabel would never admit to it —afforded Luisa a day of no obligations as Isabela had asked Abuela for a day of relaxation for her younger sister.
Mirabel had watched as Abuela had cupped Luisa's face in her hands and said, "Rest."
Seeing Luisa sit idle beneath the shade of a wax palm was a sight to behold indeed.
Isabela had coaxed flowers to grow in great patterns and colors, perfection down to the last petal.
Dolores had listened to all the hustle and bustle in the village, being sure to keep loose-lipped villagers away from where Luisa sat.
Mirabel and Camilo had helped her mother in the cocina, kneading masa, boiling chicken, and baking the many, many layers to a very large, very tall Torta Negra.
“Feliz Cumpleaños!” The village had sung.
"Feliz Cumpleaños!" Her mother had exclaimed, smothering Luisa with kisses.
“Feliz Cumpleaños,” Abuela had announced with pride.
"Feliz Cumpleaños," Mirabel had said quietly, hugging her sister as tight as her 12-year-old arms would allow.
"Just this once, because it's my birthday after all," Luisa had assured her as she hoisted Mirabel onto her shoulders for all the village to see.
She turns fifteen today.
The noon-day sun hangs high in the sky outside her window, the world awash with song and dance.
Today is not a day of rest for Mirabel.
She washes dishes piled high on the lavadero now that everyone is gone. Polishes silverware till they gleam like little jewels.
She scours clothes made filthy from sweat and grass and things she doesn't want to think about. Hangs them to dry in the midday sun.
She sweeps floors, scrubs tiles, and dusts portrait after portrait of smiling faces.
She searches through photo after photo hung upon the walls for all to see. She looks from smiling face to smiling face for something she knows isn't there.
Looks for a familiar flash of green and a somewhat awkward smile.
Lets disappointment rise steadily like the returning tide inside her chest before crushing it down and burying it beneath the sand that makes her limbs so heavy when she wakes. That makes her tremble in exertion under the burdens she bears. Under disappointment and uselessness and the overwhelming knowledge of never being good enough.
Chores complete, and feeling exhaustion sink into her, threatening to overwhelm her with its weight, she retreats to the safety of the nursery.
The nursery is empty this midday, as it is every midday, and despite Antonio's eventual return made evident in his still unmade bed, it feels off, discomforting somehow.
The walls are painted bright and decorated with silly drawings by clumsy hands as they always are. Usually, they serve a comfort in their familiarity, her surroundings changing very little as she grew. But today...
"Today will be a good day," she whispers to herself in the daunting silence of the nursery.
Camilo had turned fifteen mere weeks before Mirabel.
She and her primo had asked Abuela only once if they too could celebrate their birthday together.
Abuela had cupped Camilo's face in her hand and gently told him, "No."
Then, as if Mirabel didn't exist, the Madrigal Matriarch had merely left the both of them there in the courtyard.
Mirabel had never seen Camilo so angry before.
"That isn't fair!" he'd yelled— far, far away from Casita and Abuela's prying ear —but Mirabel could only shrug.
"Did you really expect any different?" she'd asked, a little pleased at how riled up her primo had become on her, but mostly his own, behalf.
"Well...yeah," he'd admitted, anger leaving him in one big sigh as he looked at Mirabel. She wondered what he saw. "It's our quince, Mirabel. Those only happen once."
She snorted inelegantly, "That's kinda how birthdays work, Camilo."
"It's not just the birthday, Mirabel!" and again returned the anger, "Dolores, Isabela, and Luisa all got to celebrate their quince años how they wanted to. Why are we any different?"
She had sighed, resigned and a teenie tiny itty-bitty bit bitter, and pulled her primo— who still fumed at the ears —into a hug whether he wanted it or not.
"Thanks," she'd said, trying hard not to cry, "I mean it, Camilo, thank you."
"But I didn't do anything," she could hear the confusion and bitterness in his voice even as he hugged her back.
She just hugged him harder.
Isabela had coaxed flowers to grow in pleasant patterns and delicate colors, their beauty, and refinement reflecting her own growing maturity over the steadily passing years.
Dolores had kept tight-lipped about everything Camilo asked, sticking close to Abuela and relaying to her and only her the goings-on of the village.
Mirabel had helped her mother in the cocina, kneading masa, boiling chicken, and baking many, many trays of Torta de Pastores.
"Feliz Cumpleaños!” The village had sung.
“Feliz Cumpleaños!” Tia Pepa had exclaimed, smothering Camilo with kisses.
“Feliz Cumpleaños,” Abuela Alma had announced with pride.
"Feliz Cumpleaños," Mirabel had said quietly, hugging him as hard as her 14-year-old arms would allow.
Camilo looked at her, eyes alight with mischief. She wasn't sure if she should be worried or not.
"Wha-!" he took her hand and dragged her to the dance floor. Mirabel had tried to pull away, eyes catching Abuela's look of disapproval from clear across the room. This was supposed to be when Camilo danced with his Mama, Tia Pepa, not her. "Camilo! Abuela is—" he threw her into a twirl.
"Come on, Mirabel! It's my birthday, after all!" Camilo had insisted as giddiness coursed its way through him.
Mirabel laughed once what he had left unspoken registered: "Forget Abuela, tonight is for us!"
The scolding they had both received from Abuela Alma after all the guests had been sent home was well worth it, in her opinion.
She turns fifteen today.
The moon lay gently atop the mountains outside her window, the world dark and quiet once more.
After Comida, Dolores had led her into the cocina with a small smile, delicate hands resting gently on her shoulders. There Mama and Papa stood, a small natilla dusted with cinnamon held aloft on a serving platter before them.
She turned a curious look at Dolores, eyebrow quirked: Where's Camilo? Toño, she knew, had already been put to bed.
Dolores had answered soft and maybe a little remorseful, "Mama needed him for something."
"Feliz Cumpleaños," her parents and Dolores had sung softly to her in the quiet of the cocina, Casita lifting some counter tiles to 'sing-along'.
"We're so sorry, Mirabel," Mama had said, cupping Mirabel's face in her hands. "There was an accident in the village, and the day just got away from us."
"It's okay," she replied, smiling at her parents. "I understand."
And she did, she really did.
She lays in bed awake long after the rest of her family has retired for the evening and stares at the blur of dark green that is the nursery's ceiling.
Her limbs are heavy, filled with sand. She struggles to breathe, she's drowning, and her lungs feel shriveled in her chest.
Her primito, Antonio, is little more than a heap of haphazard limbs and precarious pillows where he sleeps steadily across the room.
"Tomorrow will be a good day," she whispers to herself in the quiet of the nursery.
She turned fifteen today.