Song of the Mockingbird: My Journey with Josefina

We walk farther from the house, skipping over tiny streams, skirting boulders, watching black ravens wheel and call above our heads. Sombrita bounds up a steep boulder while I stare into the sparkling blue sky. 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, closes her eyes, and says piñón is her favorite scent. I agree it smells delicious, and we giggle together. Josefina calls the little goat to stay close, since there are dangers out here, and explains she has to teach Sombrita, who never had a mother to show her how to be a proper grown-up goat, so Josefina must try her best.

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

I inhale, almost not wanting to hear the answer. Josefina quietly says her mother died two years ago. Sensing she doesn’t want me to say anything else, I stay silent, but 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 her papá gave her a pouch of milk, and she taught Sombrita to suck it through a rag on top. That first night, Josefina slept with Sombrita by the hearth, keeping her warm and fed until she grew stronger.

We top a small rise and stop to look over the dry landscape. Josefina says it was fun, but she also felt like she had to. Now Tía Magdalena, Papá’s older sister, is teaching Josefina to become a curandera like her, and when she sees my confused face, she explains a curandera is a healer.

Then Josefina points to rabbit-brush over the next rise. We hike over, set down our baskets, and Josefina plucks flowers and stems while I twist off a few, trying not to mangle them. Nearby, Miguel gathers twigs for kindling, and Sombrita wanders the low brush, munching leaves. Josefina muses that autumn was her mamá’s favorite season, since the colors give one last show before winter’s rest.

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

Then I feel a prick on my palm and bring my hand to my mouth to cool the sting. Josefina tells me to pick the flowers lower down to avoid the spines, and I watch her deftly pick a couple more. I comment that she knows so much, how to gather and find the plants, weave, and make them into dyes. Josefina pauses, surprised, and says she never thought of it that way. Gathering plants for dyes is nothing special. She’s not good at organizing the household like Ana and Tía Dolores, and Francisca chooses better colors for weaving, and Clara weaves smoother and tighter. Josefina is still learning.

I raise my eyebrows. It doesn’t seem that way to me. Josefina is a good teacher. Her round face breaks into a smile, and she seems to grow a few inches taller.