WEBVTT

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She draws me in with her voice,
her story voice, breathless,

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distant, elusive as smoke.

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"Death has a face,"
my mother says.

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Did you know that?

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I sit on my front
porch step in Denver

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sketching a shrine for Dia De
los Muertos, for my father.

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And she switches the
conversation from folk art

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to her childhood, pulling
me through the phone line

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into her world of secrets.

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"The body stiffens"
she continues,

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"the back arches,
that toes point,

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and the face makes
all these expressions.

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Then the mouth opens wide,
and the eyes open wide,

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and all of a sudden, the
body lets loose and relaxes.

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Something just gives."

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And she stops, as
she always does,

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mistaking my silence
for disbelief,

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and I slide into the space
between what she says

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and what I see.

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The wind blew in
hard from the North,

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lashing the gnarled gray
branches of the cottonwoods

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until they twisted and
writhe like witches.

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Above white mesa,
thunderheads bruised the sky.

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Juan Mora stomped
on the accelerator,

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and his flatbed tore
along the wagon trail

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leading East from his
Rio Puerco village.

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He was running out of
time, and he knew it.

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He left the head
gate open again,

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and if he didn't get
to his field soon,

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his meager crop of
Pinto beans would

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drown in the
torrent of Rainwater

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set to roar through the
Esechias like a stampede.

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He'd had a string of
bad harvests lately,

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and with the hot
breath of the dust ball

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bearing down from
Oklahoma and Texas,

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he couldn't survive another.

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Shovels clatter in the
truck bed, his oldest son,

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Vidal bounced on
the seat beside him,

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slamming his head on the roof.

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Juan didn't notice.

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His eyes were fixed on the
anvil clouds sliding in

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from Jemez Pueblo.

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In 10 minutes, maybe
15, he'd lose it all.

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Juan braked at the edge
of a shallow furrows,

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gravel sprang from his truck
tires like a shotgun blast.

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He hopped out, grabbed a
shovel, and thrust it at Vidal.

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Fix that brake at the North end.

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Hurry.

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Vidal sprinted away while
Juan made for the head gate

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at the South.

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His lanky frame loping
along the banks of a canal

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he dug only four
years earlier, when

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he gazed into the buckskin
folds of the Valley

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and saw a shimmering he
mistook for a promise.

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His boots fell heavily on the
thick sand, and for a moment,

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he was dreaming, running
in place, arms pumping,

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sinking deeper into a land
that would not be nourished

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with anything less than blood.

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At last, he reached
the large iron wheel

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regulating the flow
of irrigation water.

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He gritted his teeth and turned.

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With all the
strength, he turned.

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Rotation after
screeching rotation

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until his chest heaved, his arms
burned, and the heavy plates

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sunk in the mud.

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He'd made it, he told himself.

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For once in his
life, he made it.

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Juan wiped his forehead
with his shirt sleeve,

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rested the shovel
on his shoulder

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and glanced back at Vidal.

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As he opened his
mouth to call his son,

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the wind gusted, sending
his straw cowboy hat

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zigzagging over the fields.

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"Shoot," he grumbled,
and started after it.

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50 yards away Vidal
bent over a breach,

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scooping silt with his
hands, cold, tired,

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cursing under his breath.

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"Everyone knew the
storm was coming,"

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he thought, why did his
father soak his field so long?

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Couldn't he do anything right?

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Then a flash, and a boom.

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Vidal tumbled on to his
side, ears ringing, enveloped

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by the odor of burnt hair.

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"Papa?"

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He pushed himself up,
and scanned the fields,

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but couldn't see his father.

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"Papa?"

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He scrambled toward the head
gate, but slipped and fell.

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His mouth filling with the
coppery taste of blood.

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Sloshing ahead on all fours,
he saw a yellow curl hidden

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among the squat green leaves.

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His father's hat.

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As Vidal reached for it,
other shapes took form.

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A denim sleeve, and arm, a pair
of overalls, a man on his back.

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Papa.

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It began to rain.

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60 miles Southeast in
the village of Corrales,

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Abenicio Perea, my
great grandfather,

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dozed off on his
broad iron bed when

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a voice swirled into the room.

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"Estoy muerto!"

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Abenicio reached over
to shake his wife.

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"It's Juan, Juan Mora."

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"I hear it."

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She said, "be quiet."

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The voice whipped around them.

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Once, twice, and
tore down the road

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to the Adobe home of
Carlos Candelaria,

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my grandfather, Juan's
brother-in-law and best friend.

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"Estoy muerto."

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Carlos covered his
head with a bed sheet,

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while his wife
Desolina used a pillow

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to shield their infant
daughter, my mother, who

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slept between them.

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Estoy muerto.

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I'm dead.

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The foot of the bed rose 10
inches off the floorboards

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before slamming down hard.

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Desolina closed her eyes and
made the sign of the cross.

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May "God forgive your sins,"
she said, "leave us alone."

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Then nothing.

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The patter of rain on the
sunflowers beneath the window.

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Carlos listened a good 3 minutes
before slipping on his boots

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and rushing outside
to investigate.

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Desolina called after him,
"check the baby", and followed.

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My mother remained
in bed, asleep.

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A spirit had just come to them,
an angry, anguished spirit.

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Yet, she remained calm,
content, dreaming.

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Thank you.

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