But morning is worlds away now, it's still early night on the Day of All Souls. The two of them spent the whole day playing in the cemetery with neighbor children, Pocha and Juan Teobaldo and Cristobal and the twin babies, helping Viola Domingos build a bower of marigolds over the grave of a great-grandmother who is no part of this family. For a long time he stands gripping the door frame, which is exactly the width of a newborn's skull and curves similarly against his palm. He decides this will be their last year for the cemetery and the Day of All Souls. There are too many skeletons down there.
People count too long on the oblivion of children.
They're deep in the corpselike collapse that takes hold of children when they are exhausted, but still he won't risk going in to stand over the bed the way he once would have. Tonight he would also see cheeks and eyelids stained bright yellow from marigold pollen. He's spent a lifetime noticing small details from a distance. From the doorway he smells the bitterness of crushed marigold petals on their skin. There is a deeper draft of breath and they both move a little.