Song of the Mockingbird: My Journey with Josefina

Everybody joins us in the family’s sala, where a fire crackles cheerfully in the adobe fireplace in the corner. The sharp aroma of piñón smoke fills the room. I don’t see any place settings at the long, narrow table where the servant is loading platters of food, and I don’t see any seats either. Francisca comes up to me and says I’ve tied my sash wrong. I look down. I’ve wrapped it three times around my waist to keep the ends from trailing. Clara says Francisca is being unkind. I’ve been practical.

Francisca and Clara go back and forth on whether a sash is supposed to be practical or beautiful, until Josefina says she thinks my sash is both lovely and practical. She puts her arm through mine and lifts her chin. Tía Dolores comes in and suggests we all wash up instead of bickering about sashes. She hands me a linen towel and bar of lavender soap and I quickly wash. When I’m done, I fold the towel and lay it with the bowl nearby.

Delicate aromas reach my nose from the plate of Ana’s tortillas. I grab one from the top, and then realize everyone else is standing around the table with their heads bowed to say grace. I quickly put it back, hoping nobody noticed. Tía Dolores says a short prayer, thanking God for the food and for the garden harvest. Her voice is low and soothing. When she’s done, everyone begins filling their plates with food. Clara offers me tamales, which actually look just like Dad’s. I place a husk-wrapped bundle on my plate. Josefina points to a bowl and says it’s Ana’s special cheese. It smells funny, but I don’t want to offend my friend, so I take a little onto my plate and hesitantly take a bite. It tastes strong and familiar—it’s goat’s cheese! This was probably made from the family’s goats.

I wait for everyone to sit around the table, but there are no chairs. Everyone just sits on the bancos, which are benches built into the wall. I realize that I don’t have a fork. I look around, and see nobody has any forks. How are we supposed to eat the squash? I watch Josefina fold the tortilla at the side of her plate and use it to scoop up a bite of squash.

After we’re done eating, a servant clears the dishes. Even through the thick walls, I can feel the evening chill. The single, tiny window glows red and purple with the setting sun. But it isn’t glass—it’s covered with a thin layer of some kind of luminous shimmery stuff, almost like stone. Josefina says it’s mica, to let the light in. I think of the shiny rocks scattered around our New Mexico house. Dad said it was mica. Henry and I had marveled at how easy it was to peel shiny layers off with our fingernails.

A cold draft blows in around the edges of the window and I shiver. But here in the sala, the fire keeps us warm.