Song of the Mockingbird: My Journey with Josefina

I follow Josefina into a large, open courtyard with a floor of hard dirt and smooth stones. Walls surround the courtyard on all sides. I see a walkway leading to another courtyard at the back of the house. The walls have many door openings, and I see rooms beyond. A round clay thing, like a kiln, is in one corner of this courtyard. Baskets of shiny red peppers sit nearby, and chickens cluck and peck randomly about.

Josefina leads me over to where three girls and a woman are sitting in the middle of the courtyard. They’re dressed just like her, but the older two girls and woman wear their hair in low buns. The younger girl has a braid like Josefina and me. Josefina explains her aunt, Tía Dolores, is staying here at the rancho for a while. Josefina introduces me to her aunt and says I’m lost. When Josefina talks to her aunt, her voice lowers, probably to show respect. The girls all stop what they’re doing and stare at me. I try not to stare too much back.

Tía Dolores jumps to her feet. She looks at my face and touches my brow. Where did I come from? But before I can say anything, she says I must be tired. I must rest here. Josefina introduces her oldest sister, Ana, who is married and has two sons. Francisca and Clara are her other sisters. The girls all have red peppers in their laps. Josefina mentioned her mother. Perhaps her mother is somewhere elsewhere in the house.

Ana invites me to sit next to her. I squirm a little on the rough woolen blankets on the hard ground. But the sisters look as comfortable as if they were sitting in armchairs. Josefina asks to make me some chamomile tea, and when Tía Dolores approves, she disappears into a doorway. I sit very still beside Ana. This feels very, very real.

Josefina appears with a steaming cup, in which I almost grab at to distract myself from my spinning mind. Josefina wipes my face with a cool, damp cloth, which feels wonderful against my dusty skin. I take a tentative sip of tea, which looks like the type of pottery mugs my mom buys at art fairs. I feel my muscles unclenching as the warmth spreads through me. I smile at the sisters, who are watching me anxiously. Then, they go back to sorting the red peppers.

Clara breaks the silence to ask what I’m holding in my hand. I look down and realize I’m still clutching the clay bird flute. I open my hand, and realize it looks different now. Cleaner. Not as dusty, and the chip on the tail is gone now. Francisca asks if she can see it, and I hand it to her. She says it’s beautifully made. Very graceful. When she sees the name on the bottom, she asks if my name is María.

I nod uncertainly. I tell them that the mockingbird flute is very important to me. I don’t know what else to do. I’m having an increasing feeling that this is not a dream, but then, what is happening? I tell Tía Dolores I feel a bit dizzy, and ask if there’s a place I can lie down. Tía Dolores’ brow creases in concern, and she tells Josefina to take me to her sleeping sala to rest. Josefina leads me through a doorway into a small room with plain adobe walls. Big rolls of soft material are stacked against a wall. A blue-and-white blanket hangs from a rod on the other wall. I examine it and realize it’s positively stunning. The fibers are woven together so smoothly. Josefina blushes and smiles, and says it’s the first blanket she wove by herself. Wow! Mom recently taught me how to sew on a button. Weaving a whole blanket would be like me cooking Thanksgiving dinner for twenty.

Josefina assures me I’ll be comfortable here. She kneels down to unroll a bundle. A sheepskin and some more blankets. She explains she, Francisca, and Clara all share that room. Ana and her husband, Tomás, share a room. So Josefina sleeps on the floor and shares her room with two sisters. I think of my four-poster bed at home. Josefina helps me lie down and covers me with a woven blanket. The sheepskins are surprisingly comfortable and smell vaguely like my favorite wool sweater.

The moment Josefina is gone, I sit up and try to think. This isn’t a dream. It’s something else. How did I get here? The flute. The flute came here with me. I was sitting on the rocks, and I played the flute like the bird. I blow a tentative little pitch. I moisten my lips and place my fingers on the holes to blow like I did with the bird. Then, it happens again. I feel myself falling through space and everything is dark. And then, I hit the ground.