A reprint of a photo glued to a slab of wood -- Mexico City’s Zocolo offers up such portraits by the dozen. Frida looks downward, coy and quiet. A Mayan necklace hangs heavy around her pale neck, announcing itself loudly while Frida remains silent. Would her Diego come back to her? Yes, another thing making it difficult to breathe, almost more wrenching than a broken pelvis and shattered leg. “I had two big accidents in my life Diego, the trolley and you... You are by far the worse.”

Another day in a hot city, children sipping juice out of pistachio bags, frothy cocoa boiling in tin pots, cacti growing high as legends. Eyebrow joined as crows wings, spread out in leisure. A siesta. A city rests with mothers in their prayer. Mi madre, mi amor… The photo looks dead flat against wood. How could they use a black and white photo of Frida when her life was lived in full color? It wouldn’t seem right to Diego either “mi amor, mi vida, Eres todo a mi…” The photo won’t even stay attached, they’ve used a cheap glue, smelly but weak. She will peel away from the edges, the thick humidity melting the glue that keeps her grounded. Still, she remains silent.