Song of the Mockingbird: My Journey with Josefina

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

Josefina runs off and comes back with a large piece of cloth, like a shawl. She has one, too, hanging around her shoulders, and pulls it up over her head. I copy her, but the slippery wool keeps sliding off 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 top of her head, a ring of cloth at its base helping it stay put. It seems like a lot of work for one jug of water, and I think of the kitchen faucet at home running with endless water.

The doors in the walls are closed, but I see flowers sitting in one corner. 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, then tells her she can’t go inside and pushes her away with her foot as we go through.

Josefina walks carefully down a row of plants, and I follow. She kneels beside the green vines, heavy with yellow squashes, and pulls two sharp knives from her basket, handing one to me. She begins cutting the squashes from their prickly vines, and 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 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. While cutting free a squash, I ask Josefina if she has any neighbors. She answers there are none near the rancho. The nearest live in the village, a half-hour walk. Santa Fe, where Abuelito and Abuelita live, is a half a day’s ride by wagon.

I ask Josefina if it’s scary, being all alone out here. Josefina laughs, as if I’ve made a joke, and says she’s far from alone: her sisters are here, and Papá, and Tía Dolores, Mamá’s sister who came to live with them last year, plus Tomás and their boys, Teresita, Carmen the cook, her husband Miguel, and the other servants and farmhands.

Finally, I free the squash from the tough stem and place it in my basket. 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 she knows what it’s like to miss something, too, since I had to leave my whole family and my home. I know she is imagining a cautiva’s life, but her words still ring true for me. Our brownstone apartment building in Chicago suddenly floats up in front of me, and I almost gasp. 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.