Song of the Mockingbird: My Journey with Josefina

The late afternoon sun is huge in the sky, which is so blue it almost hurts. The air is cool, but I can still feel the heat of the day coming off the rocks and sandy soil. As we walk, Dad calls out the plants he sees: sage, Indian paintbrush, and piñón trees. He loves all things plants, animals, and rock formations. Daisy bounds ahead of us happily. Until suddenly, a mule deer bounds across the path in front of us. I grab Dad’s hand, but then in a flash, it’s gone. Dad and I both grin. That’s something we’d never see in Chicago.

I remember my bad mood and let my face lapse into a scowl again. Dad takes the silence to say that he and Mom know how much I miss Chicago. And he admits that they miss it, too. But they’ve been trying to embrace New Mexico, and they hope I will, too. I just nod.

When we reach the rocky hills at the end of the path, Daisy scrambles up on some bigger boulders and looks around the openings between them. I point to a large opening and say it looks like a cave. Dad climbs up and peers in. He says it is a cave, and we should peek in together. Inside, it’s cool and dark. Dad holds up his pocket keychain flashlight. There’s a rough rock floor and sloping walls that extend about ten feet back. Daisy slips inside, and Dad offers to help me in. The ceiling is stable solid rock.

I take him up on the offer, a little excitement starting to bubble up. I squeeze in and peer out at Dad. I feel like I’ve entered a separate world—a little dark, cold, alien space. The high desert seems miles away.

Dad hands me his flashlight and I scan the walls. I notice Daisy nosing under a pile of stones by the rear wall, digging. She backs up, and barks once. Dad warns that it could be a snake. Slowly, I bend over and shine the flashlight into the scattered pile of stones. There’s no snake, but a rock is shaped oddly. I get closer and realize it’s a clay object, shaped like a bird.

I pick it up. It’s about the size of my hand and hollow. Traces of yellow paint glow in the dimness. I see there’s a hole at the end of the bird’s tale and another at its mouth, and a few small holes along its back. It’s a little flute.

I clutch it tightly as I follow Daisy out into the open. In the sunlight, Dad and I examine the flute. Dad says it’s probably from the early nineteenth century. Handmade, most likely for casual use. Dad is a professor of Southwestern art at the university, so he’s familiar with stuff like this. He says being hidden from sun and moisture has kept it in great shape.

We start back to the house, the bird in my hands. Through the window of the house, I can see Mom and Henry in the kitchen. Mom picks Henry up from school on her way from the health center, where she works as a social worker. I’m not eager to go inside to listen to Henry raving again about how cool it is here and how awesome his new friends are, so I tell Dad I’m going to chill out here for a while. I take a seat on a big boulder in the back of the house. Dad nods and says we can show Mom and Henry the flute at dinner.