Mama G’s shuffling was slowing down. She moistened her lips with her tongue—her other nervous habit—then stopped suddenly and smoothed her white hair with a wrinkled hand. She stood blinking at me, one hand plucking at the fabric of her dress. Its colorful, pleated skirt was set with tiny round mirrors that had been appliqueed onto the cloth as protection against the evil eye. Then the confusion cleared from her eyes as she remembered what she had been about to tell me.