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 against the cool night air. I rub the flute between my fingers and look out over the hills, some flat topped, some rounded, studded with pines. Three hills ahead, taller and thinner than the rest, rise like spires into the sky.

Looking at the flute, I see indentations where the maker’s fingers pressed into the clay while molding it. The delicate head flows into a rounded body, with a tail balanced behind it, chipped slightly at the end. I raise it carefully 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. We both seem to like how it sounds.

My fingers brush roughness on the bottom of the flute, and I turn it over. Carved letters read María. This flute once belonged to María. I trace the letters and feel the tiny ridges where the point scored the clay.

I put the flute back to my lips, but before I can blow, I hear a bird singing. A mockingbird sits on a tree branch across the yard, its chest swelling with song, its black eyes bright. I look down and see the flute is shaped like a mockingbird too, the same plump breast and long tail. My parents didn’t call me Mockingbird for nothing. I blow into the flute to sing along with the bird, and the moment the notes are out, I topple forward, aware only of the flute squeezed in my hand.

When I open my eyes, my cheek lies in dirt and my body aches. I’m sprawled at the bottom of the boulder. Daisy is gone, and my palms sting where I scraped them. I reach for the flute a few feet away, then notice something about the day feels different. It’s light outside.

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

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