Song of the Mockingbird: My Journey with Josefina

Everybody joins us in the family’s sala, where a fire crackles 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’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 should be practical or beautiful, until Josefina says mine is both. 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. I wash quickly, then fold the towel and set it by the bowl.

Ana’s tortillas smell delicious on the plate. I grab one from the top, then notice everyone else has their heads bowed in grace. I quickly put mine down, hoping nobody noticed. Tía Dolores says a short prayer, thanking God for the food and for the garden harvest. When she’s done, everyone begins filling their plates with food.

Clara offers me tamales that look just like the ones Dad makes. 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 not wanting to offend my friend, I take a small bite. It tastes strong and familiar: it’s goat cheese, probably made from the family’s own goats.

I wait for everyone to sit around the table, but there are no chairs. Everyone just sits on the bancos, benches built into the wall. I realize I don’t have a fork, and neither does anyone else. 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 feel the evening chill. The single, tiny window glows red and purple with the setting sun, though it isn’t glass. It’s covered with a thin, shimmery layer that Josefina says is mica, to let the light in. I think of the mica rocks back home that Dad once showed me.

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