Song of the Mockingbird: My Journey with Josefina

We walk farther and farther from the house, skipping over tiny streams, skirting boulders, watching black ravens wheel and call one another far above our heads. Sombrita bounds up a steep boulder, and I stare into sparkling blue depths of the sky. Pine-scented air tingles my nose. Cottonwoods cluster along the streams, and my nervousness ebbs away. There are no enemies in sight. And I haven’t spotted a single horny toad—yet.

Josefina breathes in and closes her eyes. She says that piñón is her favorite scent. I agree that it smells delicious. We giggle with each other. Josefina calls to the little goat to stay close. She says there are dangers out here. Josefina explains that she has to teach Sombrita. Sombrita has never had a mother to show her how to be a proper grown-up goat, so Josefina must try her best.

I asked Josefina what happened to Sombrita’s mother. Josefina says that she died giving birth to her. And maybe that’s why she feels so strongly that she must help her. Josefina doesn’t have a mother either.

I inhale. I almost don’t want to hear the answer as to why Josefina doesn’t have a mother. Josefina quietly says that her mother died two years ago. I sense that she doesn’t want me to say anything else. So I stay silent, but I reach out and squeeze her hand. She doesn’t look at me, but squeezes back and swipes under her eyes.

We continue walking, and I ask how Sombrita survived after her mother died. Josefina says that her papá gave her a pouch of milk and she taught Sombrita how to suck it out through a rag on the top. And that first night, Josefina slept with Sombrita by the hearth. Josefina kept her warm and fed until she was stronger.

We top the small rise, and stop to look over the dry landscape. Josefina says that not only was it fun, but she felt like she had to. And now, Tía Magdalena, Papá’s older sister, is teaching Josefina how she can become a curandera like her. When she sees my confused face, she clarifies that a curandera is a healer.

Then, she points in the distance, and says she sees rabbit-brush over the next rise. We hike over and set down our baskets. Josefina plucks the flowers and stems. A short distance away, Miguel gathers twigs and small sticks, which I imagine is for kindling. Sombrita wanders through the low brush, munching leaves. I twist off a few flowers and try not to mangle them. Josefina muses that her mamá always loved autumn. It was her favorite season. She said the colors are giving them the last show before they go on winter’s rest.

Josefina reaches out and shows me a yellow flower. The color is so vibrant against the blue sky that it almost hurts. It’s beautiful. I watch Josefina’s eyes as she gazes around the landscape. Her face is alight. She loves this land, just like I love Chicago. This is her home. And I guess it’s mine now, too.

And then, I feel a prick on my palm, and I bring my hand to my mouth to cool the sting. Josefina tells me to pick the flowers lower down to avoid the spines. I watch her deftly pick a couple of flowers. I comment that she knows so much about all of this. How to gather the plants, how to find them, how to weave, and how to make the plants into dyes. Josefina pauses, her face surprised. She says she never thought of it that way. Gathering plants for dyes and weaving is nothing special. And she’s not good at organizing the household, the way Ana and Tía Dolores do. And Francisca knows how to choose the most beautiful colors for weaving, and Clara weaves so smooth and tight. Josefina is still learning.

I raise my eyebrows. It doesn’t seem that way to me. Josefina is a good teacher. Josefina’s round face turns into a smile. She seems to grow a few inches taller.