She stared from her place of honor with hollow eyes and a half-opened mouth. Her wooden skin, burnished from dancing under different skies, gleamed from the heat of a fire long extinguished. The backside of the mask, stained with the rapturous sweat of dead shamans, smelled faintly of beeswax. Uncle Esad kidnapped her from her birthplace on the Dark Continent so she could rest in our pale hands.

Something about her begged stealing. Mother took her, knowing Uncle Esad wanted her back. He'd given her to his parents — she could look over them, and they after her.

She hung in the space near the vestibule over the framed glitter and glue painting of the three wise men I did in kindergarten. At age five, I inadvertently stumbled upon cubism and Mother was so proud.

We hid her when Uncle Esad flew in from whatever country he colonized, arriving on a Pan-Am jet in a guayabera, white slacks and fedora. His refrigerator-white shoes clipped on the tarmac of the runway. She slept in the window seat until Uncle Esad flew away.

"Make sure she goes to your sister," Mother said before she died.

But I took the hostage and secreted her away. As I mentioned, something about her begged stealing.

My sister asked where she was and I blamed it on Uncle Esad.

"He took her when he came for the viewing."

Now, when my sister visits, she is hidden in the window seat, whispering to me.