Song of the Mockingbird: My Journey with Josefina

I grab Josefina’s hand and pull her toward the grove. She grins and squeezes my hand back. With Miguel following, we trot over the next hill and skitter down the other side, rocks sliding beneath our feet. As we get closer, Miguel says we should go ahead. He’s going to break up fallen branches for firewood.

As we step into the grove, my breath catches. The piñón trees cluster together in shadows, trunks gnarled and branches stretched toward us. Our feet pad softly on the carpet of fallen needles and pine cones.

Josefina says her mother always felt close to God in a piñón grove. We stand silently together as she points upward at the pine cones hanging thick along the branches. The nuts are inside, she says, but first we must see if they’re ripe.

I ask how. The branches are at least five feet above our heads, so Josefina says we must shake the tree. Josefina and I are on our own, so we wrap our arms around the trunk, the bark scratchy against my cheek.

We shake the trunk from side to side. The tree sways and the branches clack overhead, little nuts falling to the ground like rain. Josefina cries that they’re ripe, and it’s a big crop, a good one for Papá.

I bend down and pick up one of the hard, brown nuts. The ones Mom brings home are soft and white. Someone must have shelled them already. I ask Josefina how they get the nuts out of the shells. Busy gathering nuts into her lap, she says they don’t shell them now. On winter evenings the family sits by the fire to roast them, then cracks them open with their teeth. Josefina wishes she could eat the whole pile.

I plop down beside Josefina and turn my rebozo into a little bag. Working quickly, we gather nuts from among the dry pine needles, empty them into a pile at the base of one tree, then shake another and collect the freshly fallen ones. I don’t notice when Miguel comes up behind us.

Miguel comments on how many nuts we’ve collected, and Josefina and I grin at each other. He says we must be tired and cold, our cheeks red, and it’s time to rest while he builds a small fire. I realize Miguel is right. My arms ache from shaking the trees, and my hands are scratched from the pine needles. Josefina looks tired, too, a smudge on her cheek and her hair tousled.

We sink down next to the fire Miguel has built. He’s carefully scraped away the dry grass and needles before lighting it, and its piñón smoke is strong and sweet, its heat like a blanket against the cool wind. I tell Josefina I’m tired but feel good, glad they have so many nuts for the winter.

I can tell how much Josefina loves this land by the way she looks around. Her family gets almost everything they need from here. It doesn’t seem so empty and dusty to me anymore, now that I’ve seen it through her eyes. I wonder if I can take these new feelings back to my own time. I look around the sunlit grove, the fire cracking merrily, and I want to love this place, too. And I think I can now, thanks to my new friend.