Song of the Mockingbird: My Journey with Josefina

We end up staying so long at Tía Magdalena’s that we never make it over to Señora Sanchez’s. Tía Dolores has to fetch us to go back home and rest before the fandango. She brings us a few tamales to eat on the way.

As we leave Tía Magdalena’s house, my heart feels lighter than it has since the day we left Chicago. Talking about it helped, and I want to notice when someone else needs to talk, the way Tía Magdalena noticed with me.

I swallow, suddenly ashamed of myself. Henry, Mom, and Dad seem happy with the move, but they’ve had big adjustments, too, and I’ve never tried talking to them. Maybe Audrey at school is the same way. She might be trying to be friends with me because she needs someone to talk to, and I haven’t noticed. I realize how many times Josefina has noticed when I’m sad or tired, even though she’s lost more than I have. Maybe listening a little more to others, and less to myself, would make me happier, too.

We walk fast to get back to Josefina’s home and curl up in our beds to rest before the fandango. When we get up, the sun is setting in a glow of dusty purple and fiery red-orange, black clouds silhouetted against the horizon. I feel the old party excitement rising, and Josefina and her sisters feel it too. Francisca is singing as she twists her braids up onto her head, and Clara is dancing with Josefina in a rare light-hearted moment.

Josefina helps with my hair, combing out my mussed braid and rebraiding it neatly, then lending me a blue silk ribbon to tie at the end. She pulls on a blue-green skirt and a fresh blouse, and we stand and admire each other in our party finery.

Tía Dolores sticks her head in the doorway and says it’s time to go. We’re all laughing and talking as we head out into the twilight.

Inside Señora Sanchez’s house, the dancing has begun. Ladies in full skirts trimmed with ribbon sway with gentlemen in short jackets, while a fiddler and guitar player fill the air with a tune that reminds me of square-dance music. Candles flicker on the walls, and in the corner a table holds a cloth embroidered with flowers and a painted pottery bowl.

Francisca is whisked away immediately by a handsome young man, and Tía Dolores laughs and accepts a dance from Tomás, Ana’s husband. My feet are tapping, but no one my age is waltzing. Instead, Josefina pulls me down to sit on the floor with her, along with the other kids and grandparents crowded on the bancos, watching the dancers and clapping in time. I hum along with the music and whisper to Josefina that I could probably play this on my flute. I take the little bird from my pouch and lift it toward my lips, but Josefina shakes her head no.

The fandango isn’t as much fun as I thought it would be. Josefina grins and says we should go practice the dance steps outside. I jump up right away, but then a wonderful fragrance floats toward us. Señora Sanchez is putting tortillas and a pot of chicken stew on the table. My stomach growls, craving food almost as much as my feet crave dancing.