Abuelita has hands as steady—and leathery—as a turtle, and a big old carpet bag covered in large pink and brown peonies. She sits on the stoop with the bag between her knees. Open clasps reveal a dark maw: no one knows what she keeps in there.

In it, she drops two buckeyes, a fat, heart-shaped strawberry, a small handful of knobby pine twigs, strands of cornsilk, the cob and husk, and, one by one, thirty-two kernels of white corn. They look just like teeth.

Abuelita closes the bag and shakes it, gently. Her eyes are shut; she hums a lullaby. Then she puts the bag on the stoop again and opens it, afternoon sunlight piercing its bottom.

From the bag comes a frail cry. A tiny, pudgy hand reaches out from the darkness and Abuelita smiles a gummy smile.