A Concordance of Stories
y parents couldn’t read past a third-grade level. Books were few and far between in our house. Despite this, we were well versed in the art of storytelling, thanks especially to my mother. She filled my youth with tales of spirits roaming the hills and valleys of her girlhood pueblo in Michoacán, Mexico. There were malevolent duendes who once sprinkled scorpions into my aunt’s long hair, close encounters with demon dogs, and, of course, La Llorona, the legendary weeping woman, perpetually haunting rivers
