Song of the Mockingbird: My Journey with Josefina

When Dad is gone, I draw my knees to my chin and wrap my arms around them. Daisy lies down beside me. The rock under us is warm, which feels good in the cool air. In the high desert, the temperature at night can be as chilly as it is hot during the day. I rub the flute between my fingers and look out over the hills. Some have flattened tops, and some are rounded. Pines stud their sides. In front of me, three hills, taller and thinner than the others, rise like rounded spires into the sky.

Looking at the flute, I can see indentations where the maker pressed their fingers into the flute while molding it. The delicate head flows into the rounded body, and the tail balances behind it. There’s a tiny chip out of the very end of the tail. Carefully, I raise it to my lips and blow. A delicate note drifts away on the breeze. I put my fingers over the hole and try a scale. I stumble through “When the Saints Go Marching In,” and Daisy raises her head to look at me. I think both of us like how it sounds.

My fingers brush the roughness of the bottom of the flute and I turn it over. I squint and see letters carved: María. So this flute once belonged to María. I trace the curves with a finger and can feel the tiny ridges where the sharp point scored the wet clay.

I put the flute back to my lips, but before I can blow, I hear a bird singing. I see a mockingbird across the yard sitting on a tree branch. Its chest swells with the song and its bright black eyes gleam. I look down, and my eyes widen. The flute is also shaped like a mockingbird, too. The same plump breast and long tail. I smile. My parents didn’t call me Mockingbird for nothing. I blow into the flute to sing along with the bird. But as soon as the notes are out, I feel myself topple suddenly, pitching forward, aware only of the flute squeezed in my hand.

When I open my eyes, my cheek is lying in dirt and my body aches. I look around. I’m sprawled at the bottom of the boulder. Daisy is gone. My head hurts and my hands are covered with dirt. I reach for the flute, which is a few feet away. But then I notice that something about the day feels different. It’s light outside.

I sit up and shake my head and squint at the sun. It’s higher and brighter. I’m sweating in my white blouse. Wait. My white blouse? I was wearing a t-shirt. I look down and see I’m wearing a puffy blouse and a long flouncy skirt with a fringed sash. And moccasins. They look like my bedroom slippers for a second wonder if Mom came out to dress me in these clothes. I should go ask her.

I turn toward the house and my heart freezes. The house is gone.