Our daughter, dead now five years,
returned this Día de los Muertos
even though we are not Hispanic
or Latinx or religious believers
in anything beyond the light
and dark of this world, the now
and its relentless presence,
even though we built no altar,
made no ofrenda of favored foods
like caramel-dipped apples
or chilled white cake with strawberry-
infused buttercream frosting
and crown of glazed strawberries.
She did, our daughter, come back.
She lives now in the garage fridge,
the ancient one passed down to us
from my mother, the one silent
in its cold offices for years
and years. Now, when we are out there
shifting boxes or hunting tools,
we hear from that antique fridge
the sounds of our daughter slamming
her door or breaking dishes
in the kitchen as she did
whenever it was her turn
to wash. Sometimes we can hear
the grumbling of eternal
dissatisfaction or the breathy sigh
of her favorite too revealing dress
or the thunder of her feet.
We look inside the fridge. The light
still works and everything is cold.