Song of the Mockingbird: My Journey with Josefina

I tell Josefina it’d be fun to see the garden. Josefina smiles and says I’ll need a rebozo first. It’ll shade my face from the sun. I must’ve lost mine on the journey. My what?

Josefina runs off and then comes back with a large piece of cloth that I realize is like a shawl. Then, I notice she also has one. It’s hanging around her shoulders, but now she pulls it up over her head. I copy her, but the slippery wool keeps sliding around on my hair. Josefina picks up two big, empty baskets and hands one to me.

I try to balance it on my hip like Josefina as we walk through the courtyards to the back of the house, but I can see I still have a lot to learn in Josefina’s world. We nod and smile at a servant carrying an earthen jug of water balanced on the top of her head. A ring of cloth at the base of the jug must help it balance. That seems like a lot of work for one jug of water. I picture the kitchen faucet at home running with endless water. I bet Josefina’s family would like that.

The doors in the walls are closed, but I see flowers sitting in one corner. Then, Josefina pushes open a small door and leads me to a high fence made of sticks. Sombrita bounces over and tumbles around our ankles as Josefina opens the gate. It reminds me of one of the blankets from the house—stripes of red, green, and yellow with flashes of orange. Josefina tells Sombrita she can’t go inside, and pushes her away with her foot as we go through the gate.

Josefina walks carefully down a row of plants, and I follow. She kneels down beside the green vines, heavy with yellow squashes, and pulls two sharp knives from her basket. She hands one to me and begins cutting the yellow squashes from their prickly vines. I kneel beside her clumsily and copy her. The late afternoon sun is hot on our backs, and we can smell the rich, dank odor of vegetables and the earth.

There are no sounds except the whisper of the wind and a faraway cry of a hawk. I’ve never been in a place so quiet, even in our new house. As I try not to cut myself cutting free a squash, I ask Josefina if she has any neighbors. Josefina answers there are none near the rancho. The nearest neighbors live in the village. It’s a half-hour walk. And Santa Fe, where Abuelito and Abuelita live, is a half a day’s ride by wagon.

This all sounds very Laura Ingalls Wilder. I ask her if it’s scary, being all alone out here. Josefina laughs, as if I’ve made a joke. She says she’s far from alone. Her sisters are here, and Papá, and Tía Dolores, who is Mamá’s sister who came to live with them last year. And Tomás and their boys. And Teresita, Carmen the cook, her husband Miguel, and the other servants and farmhands. I agree with her that that is a lot of people.

Finally, I manage to free the squash from the tough stem and I place the vegetable in my basket. I shuffle forward and reach for another one. I look up to see tears in Josefina’s eyes. I ask her what’s wrong, and she explains that Mamá died two years ago. Tía Dolores has been living here to help care for everyone, but she still misses Mamá. I feel my own eyes getting wet. I tell Josefina I’m sorry. She nods.

Josefina says I know what it’s like to miss something, too. I had to leave my whole family and my home. I know Josefina is imagining a cautiva’s life, but her words still ring true for me. Our brownstone apartment building in Chicago and our view from the windows suddenly float up in front of me, and I almost gasp. I nod my head. I do know what it is to miss something. Josefina reaches out her tanned hand and covers my own. I look up, and see her eyes are still wet, but she is smiling. Josefina tells me that destiny has brought us together as friends. We’ve both lost precious things, but we have found each other.