Her hands were deep in masa prepping it to make the second batch of tortillas this week. Between the two of us we could go through a dozen a day. By the time she has added a little more water to the maseca she is telling me about how her uncle was killed by his lover, who was also carrying his baby. My mother never got a chance to meet him because he died well before she was born but she has a photograph of him hanging in the living room right next to my great-grandmother’s portrait. They share a corner together. She tells me that her grandmother never could get over his death and didn’t care to make a connection to her grandson because she never forgave the child’s mother for killing her son who was beloved and desired by all the women in the entire town//////// the small home in El Salvador was pregnant with la Zandunga on the mornings that my great-grandmother missed him tremendously. My great Aunt, Mama Fide, being the kind and gentle woman she was, would yell at her when she reached her limits of “depressing” music, only to be met with curse words, objects and threats by my great-grandmother who was the only one that could truly handle her. Hanging their portraits so close to each other, I realize this is Mommy’s way of making things right again.