Subject Assignment | Class Companion

Where I'm From

Our mountain stood tall,

like the finger that points.

Our corn plants grew in fields,

thick and wide as a thumb.

Our village sat in the folded-between,

in that spot where you pinch something sacred,

to keep it still.

Our mountain stood guard at our backs.

We slept at night in its bed.

Ah Xochil

Mama called me

Ah Xochil:

round face of an

Owl

quiet moon face

stretched so wide

all filled up with

Eyes

head that swiveled

side to side

moving just to

See

silent when the

day birds sang

I sat, away from

All

Not Yet

I was strong enough

to break the wood into small pieces and feed

our fire. I kept our stove top warm.

But Mama would not send me out to cut a tree. "Not yet,"

she said, and put away the blade.

I was old enough

to feed the chickens, gather eggs

by myself. I watched out for them all.

But Mama would not let me wring their necks. "Not yet,"

she said, and wiped her brow, feathers stuck to her arm with blood.

Soccer

I did not have to be big—just strong

enough to make a wall

with my body,

keep everyone away

from the ball at my feet.

Then I could move,

tap it from one foot to the next,

go down the field and never lose

the ball.

I could move the ball

safely, closer to the goal,

close enough to score,

but I was too afraid

it would be taken

before it reached the goal.

So I passed

instead. Even though Mateo's shot

didn't make it, I sighed with relief.

Because my pass did.

Almost Dark

When I felt my eyes start to pinch,

trying to see the ball, I knew

Mama wanted me home.

"I have to go. Lo siento, amigos ."

Without me, the teams were

unbalanced, so I heard my friends complain:

"Don't go!"

"Cinco minutos más."

"Not now!"

"Why?"

Mateo answered before I could.

"Leave Carlos

alone. It is his bedtime.

You know he is afraid

of the dark."

Roberto tried to catch

my eye, but I looked away.

My cheeks

burned. My neck

itched. I tucked my chin down

into my chest, my shoulders pointed

toward my feet, which pointed to home.

Roberto

Roberto had a brother, David,

who was old enough to

pick the cherry coffee fruits,

hold a girl's hand on his way to church,

smoke a cigarette behind the tienda,

and old enough to

have the military knock on his door

with signing papers.

Roberto had a father, Manuel,

who was drunk enough to

yell

at the officers who

knocked on his door,

hunting for

soldier sons.

And then,

after that,

Roberto and his mother lit

a candle in the church

for the son,

the soldier son,

David, now with a gun.

Roberto and his mother lit

a candle in the church

for the father,

Roberto's father,

Manuel, who was gone

Soldiers Set Up Camp

That year before the rains began, they came

in jeeps, with tents for sleep,

set up camp outside our village.

I said, "There are so many

of them. How will they all fit inside those tents?"

Tía Rosa said, "They brought more

bullets than corn."

Roberto's mother said, "They have no

right to be here. We have done nothing

wrong."

Santiago said, "They are not here

for us. Their prey is in the jungle.

They are hunters."

Mama said, "They are boys.

Men, far away from home. With nothing good

to eat."

She would not let me take

the bread she sent

to them, did not want me to get close.

Close

One night, three of them

came to our soccer field, watched

a bit, then joined in.

They were not that bad.

When the game was over, they passed out

sodas, asked if anyone wanted a job.

The big one, with a laugh

that wheezed like a teasing

balloon, said,

"Just bring me the names

of any Communists you know. All we want

are names."

I did not know what a Communist was, never

heard that word before said in our village, did not know

what it meant, did not understand.

But the 400 quetzales they offered?

Enough to feed a person

for a month, or buy

a radio in San Fernando.

I looked at the faces of my

friends and knew

that was something we all understood.

The Army

The soldiers stayed for days,

at the foot of our mountain.

They ate tortillas, played soccer, listened to music,

just like us. But

they were always searching, always

watching, always serious,

warning us about guerillas. Warning

us about those rebel Communists. Warning us

to keep them away.

They even let a few boys shoot their guns.

We were not scared.

But then,

the day before the army broke up camp and left,

some women who were washing clothes came

running back to town screaming

Roberto and I walked

toward the water to see what made them run.

It was a man

Juan Choc Túc

dangling

from a tree

a sign was hung

from the rope around

his neck: COMMUNIST.

I heard the soldiers, packing

up their things, laughing.

"Para que escarmienten."

"They will learn a lesson."

I watched some men from my village come cut

the rope, lower his body

stiff

carry it back to town.

I heard them talking about

Juan Choc Túc.

They were not calling him a Communist, instead

they spoke of land

he owned, land others wanted, land

no one could afford, unless

they earned a few quetzales

selling names

to the army.

Later That Night

The soldiers called us all

into the middle of the village. I could

still see that stiff body in my mind, and so I did not want to go.

Mama said, "Come, mijo. It is best if we just see what it is

they want." But all they wanted was a chance

to stand high on the steps,

grip their guns tight to their chests,

watch us all wait to hear their words.

They were passing out food,

sodas, just a few things they did not want

to bother hauling away the next day.

Even though we were all forced to come,

there were not enough sweets to go around.

The big one, with the balloon laugh, said, "Remember,

there are traitors in this village, people

who are spies for the rebels,

snakes who want to carry

harm into Chopán. When we come back, we will pay

money for these names, reward those

who do their part to keep this village safe

from the terrorists

who want to tear it all apart."

He was not

laughing his wheezy laugh.

He reminded us there was a war

going on. They were working hard to find and kill

the enemy, keep us safe.

"Remember," he said. "These men are rebels,

stupid smelly pigs," he spat. "They are guerillas,

ugly clumsy things," he spat. "They are Communists who

will come, steal your food, hurt your women, take

your children. They cannot be trusted.

Offer them no help.

You must defend your village."

I wondered how many soldiers these rebels must have killed,

to make the army hate them so.

On the Way Home

The army said the Communists were bad,

evil, wanting to take away

the land that people owned. I did not know anyone

who owned any land,

so I was not worried.

Santiago, on his way to his stool by the corn, said, "Land

does not belong to anyone."

The Next Morning

We watched them leave, shaking

their heads from side to side,

jeeps bouncing on the road,

dust flying up behind.

Some people worried,

didn't want them to go, felt unsafe.

Some people sighed,

didn't want them to stay, felt unsafe.

I was not sure why they were leaving,

without the rebels they said they came to find.

Mateo's brother said, "We must be ready to fight

the rebels."

Roberto's mother said, "It is the army

we should fight, battle them if they come again."

Santiago said, "It is not

our war."

Roberto was looking down,

not making a sound.

Mateo was nodding his head up and down,

up and down. "It is up to

us to keep our village safe."

He turned to Roberto then, frowned,

said, "It is time

to be a man."

Roberto said

nothing.

I nodded, said, "Keep our village safe."

The oldest of Flora's brothers

laughed

and said, "The troubles

of our nation—solved

by a bunch of schoolboys."

Flora

lived in my village

climbed trees with me when her father

wasn't looking

showed me the spot

in her grandmother's garden where she buried

a puppy one year

Flora

lived with her family

mother, father, three sisters, four brothers, two grandmothers,

and an uncle all

under the same roof

always loud

always busy

never enough

food

Sometimes

when Mama and I finished our meal

at the table with two chairs,

I would wrap some beans into a tortilla,

tuck it into my pocket,

walk to Flora's house, watch her

eat on the steps,

lick her fingers,

laugh at me as I

tried to pluck a feather

from Señor Pancho, the rooster,

her fingers wrapped around the edge

of the tortilla, her teeth peeking out,

her mouth in a smile.

Healer

Flora's grandmother had a garden,

behind their house, full of plants growing

as food and full of plants growing

to heal. But the most important

plants she gathered from the jungle,

teaching Flora to look for

leaves pointed, berries yellow, roots moist.

Flora and her sisters and their mother would

chop and wash, mash and boil,

while her grandmother

looked on, looked over,

as they made the healing paste, making sure

they got each mixture just right, making sure

there would always be a healer in that house,

mending, helping, listening

to the pains of the whole town.

In the Fields

The day after the soldiers left, I did not

go to school, I went to work instead

with Mateo and his uncles, in the coffee fields,

where berries fat and red waited

inside the bushes

to be picked.

I ran my fingers down the stem,

pulled them toward me with a crackle,

my hands were fast,

squeezing life from each bush,

squeezing out the promise of tomorrow,

red sweet hope,

ready to be plucked,

red juicy life,

ready to fill the basket at my waist,

my hands moved fast down each stem,

crackle

crackle,

like climbing a rope except I was not

going anywhere.

Being a Man

When my work was done, I took the long path

home, looking for Flora, to show her the money

I earned for a day of being a man.

I could not find her near the corn, where

Santiago was sitting, keeping

away hungry animals. I did find

Mama there, looking for me.

"¿Carlos, dónde andabas? Where have you been? Luisa tells me

you did not go to school?"

"School is for children, Mama. Today,

I am a man." I dug

into my pocket, pulled out

money from inside, put each

centavo in her hand.

Mama shut her eyes

tight, shut her mouth

tight, shut her fist around the money tight,

tight, tight.

"You are too young,

mijo, to work in fields all day."

I moved my eyes to Santiago's stool, where he

sat, saying nothing.

"I am old enough," I said.

Mama sighed, shook her head, told me to come home

soon, then walked away.

I smiled, because she kept

the money in her hands, money

to buy food, money that I earned myself.

Nahuales

Santiago's voice called out to me,

worn and warm and old,

"I was your age when I stepped away

from Child, stepped into Man."

I looked over at him then.

He took his cane and pointed

up the mountainside.

"In the woods,

I met my nahual,

became a man."

I looked up to the trees,

away from his eyes. I did not want to tell him

no one believes anymore

in nahuales,

spirit animals who guide us in life, keep us

safe. I walked away.

But I wondered

which animal

he saw.

Santiago Luc

was the oldest

man I knew, older than

Flora's abuela who had lived

seventy-six years, older than el tío de Mateo who turned

eighty that June, older than my abuela, who—for ninety years—

had lived at the top of the mountain, in the tiniest

village, that I had made the climb to see

only once.

Mateo said Santiago Luc was older

than the trees, older

than the mountain, older

than dirt.

Santiago Luc said he did not know

how many years he had walked the land, but he remembered

a time when everyone

wore the colors of our village, the colors that only a few

still wove into cloth so bright,

a time when no one

had to walk for days to find

a plot of land to plant some food,

a time when there were no soldiers

driving up in jeeps, holding

meetings, making

laws, scattering

bullets into the trees,

hunting guerillas.

Guerilla Rain

They came

in rain,

the end

of wet

season, when

rain was

no longer

welcome.

Yet

it beat

our roof,

turned floor

to mud,

washed off

the army

camp.

Guerillas.

They came

in rain.

We huddled

inside, waited

for earth

to stop

its slide.

They came,

sacks

empty

bellies

empty

guns

full.

Rebels.

They marched

right through

our town,

made their

way into

the jungle.

And when

the last

of them

had been

sucked in

by thick

green arms,

the rain

stopped.

What My Eyes Saw from the Window

They were not aiming

for our village.

They just cut through.

They were not beaten down

by rain, or mud, or roads that would not stay.

They were not loading up their arms

with what we had inside.

Instead they raised

their hands, waved,

then shot us smiles.

What Roberto Said

"They are wearing clothes like soldiers, look

exactly like the army, no signs that say Communist

strapped on their backs at all.

"They did not

stop to hurt us, did not

prick our village, did not

take anything at all."

What Mama Said

"They will

be back."

Mama Was Right

Two mornings passed after they climbed

into the mouth of the jungle.

I did not think

they would come back.

I was standing

behind the tienda with Roberto,

drinking a Pepsi,

when they came:

two men

with hats that matched

the colors of the trees,

a woman

with boots

higher than her knees,

and a boy,

a boy.

Not yet

as tall

as me.

He Had a Gun

A rifle rattled

on his shoulder,

his thumb tucked

under the strap,

a shadow where

a mustache planned to grow, above his lip.

He tapped his fingers

on the bullets around his waist

as he winked

at some girls.

Roberto dropped his Pepsi,

ducked inside.

My feet stuck

right to the ground.

I did not move.

Except my eyes.

They Walked

They walked

We froze down

the hill So

still and

into the

the whole

Village.

Tortillas

Everyone found

something to do inside.

Everyone except Mama.

She sat on her stool by the fire.

Her hands were doing

what they always did:

Pinching the dough

Squeeze Twist

Squeeze

Twist

Dance of the wrist.

CLAP CLAP CLAP

The village silent

except for her hands.

CLAP CLAP CLAP

Four guerillas walked right up to her.

CLAP CLAP CLAP CLAP

CLAP CLAP CLAP

CLAP CLAP

CLAP

Mama and the Communists

Nod

How are you?

Fine, thank you.

Beautiful day.

Tortillas?

Nod

How much to pay?

Take what you need.

Before They Left

The one who did all the

talking, the one with the red

bandanna around his neck, thanked

my mother

for the tortillas, then asked her about

the tzut in her hair.

It was the yellow one, the one with birds

of all colors puffed out with woven thread like they were sitting

on her head, the same one made when

she was a girl, the same one she wore every day and no one ever

thought to talk about.

"Qué bonita," he said. "How beautiful."

She smiled.

They left.

After They Left

"They are rebels."

"They have guns."

"Blood on their hands."

"They march ahead of trouble."

"You'll see."

"Best if they move on."

"They did us no harm."

"Blood."

"It's not safe."

"Remember Juan Choc Túc?"

"¡Mi Manuel!"

"Pobrecito."

"We must protect our village."

"They have guns."

"Dios mío."

"¡Blood!"

"We want no part."

Mama: "Everyone has to eat."

Three Days

Three days passed

since the rebels came and went.

Enough time for them to be far

up in the jungle, buried

in the trees.

For Three Whole Days

People in our village whispered,

argued,

wondered what to do.

"The rebels will return, we must

be prepared."

"The army!"

"The army will come

back and smell guerilla in the air."

"They want

names."

"Dios mío."

"We must tell them where they went."

"You!"

"I saw you talk to them."

"Tell them

nothing."

"I am not

a Communist!"

I stayed away

from the edge of trees,

stayed close to home, one

eye out the window,

watching,

waiting.

What the Village Decided

I was sitting on the front doorstep,

with Roberto and Mateo, when

Angel Choc Có came to tell Mama, "Run.

Our village is not safe. If the rebels

or the army

return to Chopán,

we should all run,

go to the

trees, hide. Run."

She wiped her hands on her apron,

nodded, looked first up

at the mountain and then down

at me, as Angel left to deliver

the message to someone else.

Mateo stood up,

said, "A man

does not run.

I will stay

and defend our village, protect

everyone in Chopán."

Roberto said

nothing.

I nodded,

stood up next to Mateo, said, "We

will not run.

We must fight for Chopán."

"Mateo, Roberto, go home now," Mama said.

She looked at me with narrow eyes.

"You. Come inside so we can talk."

I heard Mateo

as I closed the door, "Carlos always does

what he is told."

In the Doorway with Mama

She did not

sit down, did not

take more than two steps. Just

pointed her finger right to me,

"You

will

run."

"Mama, I—"

"No.

Carlos, I do not want to hear

a word.

Listen to me. You

will run. When you hear

the first sign of trouble,

you will go.

We will meet in the mountains,

go as deep as you can.

Do not slow down, do not

look back.

You will do this because

boys in this village

do as they are told, do just

what the elders say."

"I will wait for you."

"You will find me,"

she said.

"Maybe not right away."

She took my chin in her

hand, pulled my eyes

up to hers.

"But, Carlos,

you will

find me."

The Next Day

Mama

left the house of Tía Rosa

after the baby

took her first breath.

Mama

came back down to our house,

her apron wet,

her face flushed and damp,

tired from a night without sleep,

a night of bringing a baby

into this world.

Mama

smiled, asked me

to gather mushrooms

while she went to rest her eyes.

"Wake me when you get back

so I can make the soup."

The thought

of going into the jungle

made my heart, my eyes blink and flap like a baby

bird, pushed

off the branch for the very first time.

But I only said,

"Sí, Mama,"

picked up the marbles I was shooting,

put them into my pocket,

took a bag from the nail on the side of the shed,

turned toward the mountain.

"Carlos."

I stopped.

"Another sweater."

I groaned. I had my T-shirt, my jacket. I

was warm enough.

"It is warmer here than

there." Her lips pointed up

to the trees and the climb.

I stomped inside, grabbed

the first one I felt on the hook,

stomped back, past

Mama.

She reached out her hand to ruffle

my hair but

I was already gone.

To the Mountain

The house of Tía Rosa was still,

quiet when I walked by, pulling me like a string to

peek into the window, see

if my new cousin was awake.

But I did not. Instead

I walked to the edge of the village,

passed the tienda, the church, the lake that waits

underneath and catches the water that falls

down the side of the

mountain. I took off my

shoes, waded through

to the cornfield.

Santiago's stool—empty. Daytime does not need

guards to keep the maíz safe from hungry

animals. In the day, it was the place of play for all

children:

rows to run down,

stalks so high a child can

hide and not be seen

by adults who call. I walked

past and saw

Flora, her younger sister,

wrapped to her back, tugging

her hair. She

waved.

"¡Carlos, vení aquí !"

But I kept walking,

too tall to hide,

safe among the stalks, anymore.

Sounds

I walked closer to the trees,

heard the sound of birds

get louder, sound of leaves

catching the wind

get louder, sound of the mountain getting

louder and louder.

Behind me

the laughter from the

cornfield, the noises from the

village, the rumble

of trucks

approaching,

all disappeared.

Mama Was Making Soup

Mama was making soup.

She sent me to gather mushrooms.

Santiago taught me which ones are

sacred, which ones are

bitter, which ones are

sweet, which ones cause

death. So I went.

Mama was making soup.

Sopa de hongos.

So I left. I went

into the jungle. Deep.

Mama was making soup.

I could not see the village.

And it could not see me.

Why I Dropped the Mushrooms

pop

pop pop pop pop

pop pop pop

pop pop

it sounded like

cohetes

on a saint's day—

fireworks—

except for the

screams

Blind

I did not see

blades

spinning in the sky

I did not see

bullets

raining

down

I did not see

screams

prayers

soldiers yelling

I did not see

feet running

shots

screams

I did not see

I stood there, still

as a tree, deep

in the woods,

eyes closed,

ears left open

I Climbed a Tree

in out in

out in out in

out in out in out

in out in out in out in

out in my breath was fast

step pull step pull step pull step

pull step pull step pull step pull

step pull I climbed a tree

arms squeezed

tree swayed

eyes closed

disappeared

Even When

I stayed in my tree

even when

their machetes sliced

the edges of the jungle,

their voices pricked

the loud whir of Nothing

that roared in my ears.

I stayed in my tree

even when

the pops of their rifles,

laughter of the soldiers,

screams of my neighbors all

died down.

I stayed in my tree

even when

my tree caught the whisper

blowing from tree to tree, a message

wave, turning leaves right side up

brighter green,

a message that said:

They're gone.

Laughter

Above the laughs so round and plain

they could have come from any

mouth, I had heard

the wheeze.

Who?

I would have stayed

a branch, never moving again,

except

Who?

Through eyes shut tight and ears turned

off, I heard it:

uu uuu

My eyes

unclenched.

Who?

Darkness.

uu uuu

Night everywhere.

Who?

My eyes

could not see.

uu uuu

I turned my neck,

stiff neck,

Who?

My eyes landed on

Eyes

uu uuu

rounder than mine.

Big black circles

Who?

full of nothing but

Calm.

uu uuu

El tecolote.

Who?

The owl.

Stare

both

stared

eyes

big

and

r o u n d

and

did

not

make

s o u n d

His Eyes

His eyes said

nothing, asked

nothing, held

nothing, but

mine.

My lungs

slowed.

My arms

unclenched.

My heart:

se durmió.

I stared into his eyes

until I fell

asleep.

asleep

I stand on the edge

of the branch and dive

stretch my arms out wide

enough to glide

fly

swim through the air over the trees

to see

the lake below

still, quiet,

red

I see

the people of my village on the bank, the water's edge,

no one speaking,

just walking,

walking down

into a trench, wide and deep,

one at a time, walking

down, lying flat,

falling asleep,

they are not

smiling and yet no one seems

anything but calm

I see

Tía Rosa with a bundle in her arms

I try to go in closer, get

close enough to see

but the wind picks up again,

Tía Rosa enters the trench,

points behind her, so I

fly on

I see Roberto and Mateo, Santiago

holds his cane, uses it to point

behind him

I see

Flora

she looks at me with eyes so

kind, does not move her mouth to form

any words but I feel her speak to me

Go.

I do not want to leave

her face but she moves me with her eyes

points behind

I see

yellow

cloth, birds perched

on blackest hair —

Mama

is walking

closer to the trench, silent

with the others and I feel a tug

start to close my arms up to my chest

let myself

fall to the ground

but the wind won't let me,

keeps me in the air, keeps me

away from Chopán

I look into her face

it says

Go.

I feel her push me

with her mind, push me to look behind

I try to stop the force that keeps

me in the air, try to follow

her but I am no match for

the wind

and I feel her move it with her mind

You will find me.

Behind her is our mountain.

The wind

carries me there.

The Next Morning

The owl was

gone.

The branch was

empty.

Birds of

day, before

me flew.

Every one

of them

safe,

home.

Mariposas

I looked, pointed

my eyes toward the village, toward

Chopán. Looked through

trees to see. Something

moved. Something

fell. A limb.

CRASH.

And then—the sky

was filled

with blue, butterflies,

tiny blues

that fluttered and flew,

past my tree,

over my head, above

the forest,

into the sky.

I blinked

and saw

the last one

was yellow.

Back on the Ground

I did not want to climb down, but I did,

one foot under the other.

I did not want to look around, but I did,

trees, sun—just a day.

I did not want to leave that spot, but I did,

tiptoeing to the edge of the wood.

I did not want to leave my village, but

the wind pushed my legs,

pushed them up the mountain, kept

me from walking down,

kept me safe.

I Walked

My legs brushed

against the bush,

swish swash

swish.

I walked.

My tracks

cracked

the sticks.

Forest sounds

all around

but on the ground

the sound

of Me

grew. Echoed.

I heard a path I could not see.

it did not happen

did not happen

not happen

not

Argument with a Boy

I walked.

Is she alive?

Yes. Yes.

I walked.

Yes. She promised

to run.

I walked.

How will I find her?

I walked.

I will look.

I walked.

Should I go back?

What if she is there?

What if?

I walked.

She ran. She is

here. She is safe.

I walked.

Everyone else?

I walked.

What about everyone else?

I walked.

Mama told me to run.

I walked.

Only boys run.

I walked.

"Carlos always does what he is told. "

What would Mateo do?

I walked.

He would go back.

I walked.

I will find Mama. She

will know what to do.

I walked.

Now who is the child?

Tired

I was so tired,

empty of fuel,

my legs limp

and weak.

Muscles hot

and numb,

body heavy empty weak and I was

so tired

tears ran

down my face

tears

ran

I stopped

i was so tired

When I Stopped

I found a tree

that looked softer than most,

stronger than me.

I climbed a little—just enough

to put air between

the earth and me

but close enough that

earth would be

only a short fall away.

I climbed up,

tucked in my feet

underneath

my legs. But my feet

kept rocking

back and forth,

pinching open, pinching shut. My feet

walked still

in my sleep.

When I Woke Up

I took my arms away

from the tree. They burned

stiff and did not believe my brain, which

told them they could stop their clinging

to a tree that was no longer there,

nothing left to grip but air.

My arms did not care,

did not seem to hear.

So I opened my mouth to tell them Let Go,

but when I stretched my lips they cracked.

I opened my mouth and tasted

the air, and it tasted so new,

I realized my mouth had been

closed for a long time.

I sucked in a breath and pushed it out

with a whisper.

"Let Go."

My voice crumbled

like wood after a fire,

so I licked my lips.

I tasted blood.

Water

How long since I had

eaten? I didn't want to

count back the past to see.

I knew I needed

water. My tongue was thick and had shut my jaws

and made the trees spin and I needed to get

water. Outside the forest where the trees thin,

there is sun.

There is water,

a stream that flows down

into my village

all the way from

Patrichál, the village

at the mountain's top, the village where

my grandmother lived.

I Drank from the Stream

Water rushing

down the mountain

in a hurry

because it thought

it was needed

at the bottom

of the mountain

where people wait:

by the big rocks,

laundry stretched out,

women laughing—

they've had their drinks.

Crops are thirsty,

children dirty,

village needs it,

water can't wait.

Buckets to fill,

soups to make,

mouths to kiss,

but

there was just mine.

What would the water find?

Only Child

I always liked the forest, thick

with life buzzing all around, vines that block

it all away—even the sun—keep you

hidden from it all.

Here I could be

alone, but never by myself.

It was always just Mama and me.

I was too young when my father died

to be left with a memory.

I had never lived in a hive

of family, sharing space with many.

When I was younger, I could play

alone for hours. I asked Mama once,

why didn't she go back

to her family, back to her village, on the top of the mountain.

She said, "There is a school here for you, Carlos,

in your father's village, and a road.

In Patrichál, the house of my family was crowded with

brothers, sister, uncles, cousins. Here we have something better.

Here we have space."

Patrichál

Tía Rosa came to Chopán when I was eight.

Came to tell Mama their father

had died.

Tía Rosa stayed.

Mama

said it was time for us to climb the mountain.

She packed sacks

with blankets, food,

warmth.

And we walked.

For five days, we walked,

slept by the water and walked,

she named the plants we saw as we walked,

we sang and talked,

we walked and walked.

I can remember every step up

the mountain to Patrichál, but

I cannot remember

walking back down.

I Cannot Remember

There were plenty of berries to eat,

fruit that was sweet.

I would not starve. Still,

I stopped to dig roots because

I remembered Flora

showing me how.

It was after Roberto's brother was taken,

after his father was

gone. He was telling us his mother was

too sad to cook, asking Flora to make him

some soup.

She smiled at him with only her

eyes, took his hand, put it in the earth, pulled

up roots together,

showed us which roots were good to eat so we could make

our own dinners.

I remember

the dirt Roberto threw at her, how she

laughed and laughed.

I cannot remember

which roots to eat or if she

let go of his hand.

Smoke

I was walking

mind empty

eyes taking in all the

life

around me

mind empty

until

the wind carried it to me

like a message, filled my nose

with a taste of the

death

of a year's worth of planting and

I choked and

I breathed

the wind reminded me

would not let me forget

would not let me walk away

pulled me back

sent the memory with me

would not let me

leave it behind

Helicopters

The day we first heard them over our village,

like footsteps pounding on the sky,

we all looked up, pointed, waved. I wondered

what we must have looked like from that high.

They flew

over our village many times, searching the mountains for

something. We didn't care,

just reached our arms as high as we could, stretched

toward the sky, wanting

to be seen.

We did not know to be

afraid, did not know they were a storm

of death, searching

for a place to rain.

When I heard them in the woods alone, I

ducked, crouched

under a bush, made myself

small, tight, still, hidden.

Night

I stopped walking

before the night came so I would have

some light to find a tree, so I would have

my eyes closed tight before the dark arrived,

cold dark.

Before I climbed, I took off the sweater,

blue as the sky after a storm,

tied to my waist, put it on, trapped some heat

inside. I would need it for the night,

cold night.

I wrapped my arms around the tree, fingers brushed

against my sleeves. My throat closed at the memory—

taking the sweater off the hook, stomping away from our house,

warm house.

I wished I could go back,

let her touch my hair.

My Home

The walls were strong,

gray blocks of cement, that captured

all the warmth of the middle of the day, saved it

for the cool of night.

The floors were dirt,

packed firm and smooth,

earth, the same ground that had been there for days and years, holding up

so many dreams.

The roof was thick,

enough to keep out the rain that came each year and would not stop

for weeks and weeks.

I wondered

if my house screamed

flames, spit

smoke into the sky

if it stood there

alone

untouched

and watched

all the walls around it

burn.

I wondered

if it stood there still.

Empty. Cold. Alone.

My Dream

sunset

in my village square in front of the church

I am tall

the size of a

man

Flora is there,

mashing up beans with a spoon,

slowly making them soft

then

standing up

on tiptoe, reaching her arm high above her head,

spooning a bite of beans into my

mouth, just the way a mother

would

feed a helpless baby

I squirm

I do not want her

help

they are laughing,

all the people of the

village

I cannot see them but

I can hear them

I want to

take

the spoon,

feed myself, but I

cannot,

arms

won't move

Flora does not seem to hear them

she looks at me

calm and patient

waiting like she knows what I am about to do but I

do not know

myself

I kick move fight thrash try to

something

I woke up.

I could still hear them laughing.

Awake

The dream hung

over me with early morning mist,

left my face cool and damp,

clung to me, like the clouds

cling to the mountain.

I breathed in the wet

air, stretched my neck, let

the dream fade

b l u r r y f u z z y

but the way

it made me feel—mad,

impatient, embarrassed—

lingered.

So did the laughter.

My skin prickled.

Alive.

I was not alone.

I could hear them:

soft laughter,

many footsteps,

trees breaking

in their path.

Someone coming.

Almost

they came faster heart beat faster

the sound of them got strong then weak

talking footsteps talking footsteps

holdmybreath closemyeyes

and then

sounds gone

my heart

be gan

to slow

I knew

they

had moved

I was still in my tree

Everything around me had shifted

What I Did

I did not follow them but

I walked swiftly, silently, in the place

where their sound faded.

I let my heart wonder

who they might be:

people from my village

coming to find me,

maybe Roberto or

Tía Rosa with the baby or

Flora or

Mama

but my mind shook

my head. I knew

my heart was wrong.

They were laughing. People

from my village would not have been laughing.

I tried to swallow the rock that was in my throat because I knew

who would be laughing:

Soldiers.

The army.

A Shadow

I walked,

a shadow on their path,

stretching over sticks they'd cracked,

reached the edges of their talking,

laughing,

whistling.

Once I caught

a glimpse,

something moving up ahead: a gun

slung on a back of cloth stitched

gray brown with green

just like the trees.

I ducked, crouched

low beside a bush, tucked

my face into my sweater blue,

breathed in. Smelled home:

warm, smoky—

tortillas on the stove.

Breathing fast,

staying low

until their sound

faded away.

I stood up,

alone again,

realized I

was not the prey.

Later That Day

I got close

enough to hear

words, pieces of a language I did not know.

It was not the lengua of my village or

the words we learn in school: español.

They were heavy words,

like the fattest raindrops on top of our roof, beating

down fast and mad.

Until I heard

a smaller voice speak loud and clear in words I knew:

Estamos perdidos.

We are lost.

Lost

stupid soldiers

couldn't even

follow the

sounds

of a

river

up a

mountain

What I Realized

If they were lost, then

they searched.

On the mountain,

there is only

up or down.

They were going

up. Up is only

a village

much smaller

than mine.

Patrichál.

Abuela.

Abuela

weaving mats on a stool by a fire in her house,

Abuela,

at the top of the mountain,

Abuela,

who rubbed my tired feet with herbs and I saw she,

Abuela,

had fingers just like Mama's,

Abuela,

who was up there then,

who did not know about those soldiers, lost

but on their way.

What I Did

I did not care about their

guns,

or how their footsteps were so loud I knew

they were so

many

or about the popping that I heard from the tree with the mushrooms or the

screams

that were so far away I could not tell whose

mouth had let them go or their

guns,

or how small I was, how alone, or their

guns,

I just

screamed

the loudest roar I could find inside, a roar

stolen from an angry jaguar, a roar that said

I am here, I am here, I am

HERE!

Attack

I grabbed a limb and waved it in front of me

like it was on fire, and a rock,

a rock, was in my hand, and I

was raising back my arm and roaring

like a plane,

and letting go,

pushing that rock into the sky, as I saw a

head, the first head I saw, the rock

rushed through the air with my roar, landed

in a bush

in front of the one who

had pulled his gun

around, pointed it

right

me:

The boy.

The Rebels

A man

stepped in front of me.

I saw his back,

heard his words:

"¡Baja el arma!"

"Put down the gun!"

A woman

stepped beside me,

put her hand upon my arm,

the one holding the stick,

looked at me, spoke.

I did not understand her words

but her eyes said, "It's okay."

I stood,

limbs tight with tense,

while the backs in front of me moved,

legs walking to him,

hands patting his back,

pushing down his gun.

Words,

lots of words

I only heard:

sólo un niño.

"just a boy."

Eye to Eye

In front of me

He is afraid.

I too saw

just a boy

pointing

a man's weapon.

I stare him down and I see

he gulps air like a hungry baby.

Like water after a storm,

moving around,

eyes wide.

The gun

shook

in his hand.

His body so tense,

it could snap

like a stick.

(Like a stick

could snap me!)

His body so tense

in her hand.

Eyes wide

and moving around

like water after a storm.

I shake

the gun,

a man's weapon,

pointing.

He gulped air like a hungry baby.

Just a boy

I see

in front of me.

I stared him down and I saw

he was afraid.

Introductions

They talked, more words

I did not understand.

But then the man with a red cloth around his neck

put down his gun,

walked toward me with a smile.

"Buenas, " he said. "You

are a surprise.

My name is Miguel."

He put his hand over his heart,

pointed to the woman

whose hand squeezed

my elbow still, "And this is Ana, the most

beautiful flower on any mountain."

She took away her hand, shook her head

from side to side, shot words

I did not know to Miguel,

who only sighed, but

they were both smiling.

"And that is

her brother, Hector," said Miguel with a nod.

I looked around and saw a man

scratching his arm. "He is here to keep her safe

from men like me." Miguel winked.

Hector shook his head.

They were still smiling.

Miguel pointed to the boy,

"This is their cousin Paco, who thought

you were an animal,

come to be his dinner this very night."

Miguel gave Paco a tap,

turned to me, lowered his voice to a whisper

that everyone could hear:

"Don't get too close to his mouth, amigo, because

he is very hungry, you see." Paco turned

red in the cheeks, but

even he was smiling.

I said nothing but

I felt my cheeks start to twitch.

The Rebels

Miguel said they were

crossing the mountain,

going to meet other rebels

in a place called Ixchandé.

Miguel said they were

moving in secret,

hiding from the army,

planning a way to keep the people safe.

Miguel asked

what was my name,

where was I going, and

where was I from.

I said

"I am Carlos,

going to Patrichál" and

nothing more.

Walked and Talked

I did not plan to join their group,

but found

I was soon walking with them,

walking beside

the boy.

At first we were

silent until he said,

"Lo siento. Sorry

about the gun. I thought you were

something wild

from the woods

coming to attack."

I laughed

because there is nothing

in these trees that would attack with that much noise.

He grinned,

said, "But, amigo,

what was your plan with that stick?"

I shrugged, looked

away, felt my face get warm.

"I thought you were the army."

Paco spat on the ground,

pinched up his eyes.

"Nunca. Never.

They came to our village one night,

looking for all the men they could find,

took away my uncle

and others.

My aunt and my cousins went

from office to office, camp

to camp, asking

where the men were being

held. But they got

no answers.

That is why

I am here now."

He grabbed his gun.

"Fighting for

my people."

I nodded just a bit,

as my foot tripped stumbled.

I stopped walking,

bent down to see if a nut or seed or stick

was stuck inside my shoe.

There was nothing there.

Paco

Paco talked

a lot.

He told me all about his family:

father and brother—older, picking fruit in California,

sister—older, a baby of her own,

three sisters—younger, always following him around,

brother—small enough to stay wrapped up on the back of their

mother,

aunts, uncles, cousins, too,

all live in the same place by the shore

where they eat fish soup and the meat from crab and the ground

is flat, so flat you can see people coming from far away before

they land in his village.

After he talked and talked and

talked, he asked, "¿Y tu familia?"

I told him, "They live in Patrichál."

I looked up to the sky.

Permission

I walked beside him. We were

the same height, same size, same,

except he was not afraid

of the bullets on his chest,

except he knew what he was doing, except

he had a plan.

I asked Paco, "Your mama

let you be a rebel?"

He cocked

his head to the side, stuck out

his elbow, thumped his hand against his chest:

"I am the man

of the house now,

Carlos. I did not need

to ask."

Flora

I remember a day in the cornfield,

a day when I was supposed to be cleaning

out the chicken pen,

a day when I was hiding in the stalks instead

with my friends.

When I heard Mama call my name, I sighed,

said good-bye,

heard Flora laugh,

saw her cover her mouth with her hand,

bend her eyes in sympathy

because there were too many

people in her mama's house to ever

call one home.

We Ate

We walked to the edge

of the trees, drank from the stream,

gathered limbs.

I built

the fire.

Miguel opened up the sack

he carried on his back, pulled out cans:

beans in one,

peaches in another,

stuck in his knife,

pulled out a peach,

plopped it into his mouth,

passed the can and a smile to me.

I took the can, ate a peach,

made a smile of my own.

My fingers stuck with sweet.

"We will sleep here tonight," said Miguel.

The fire warmed the front

of me, made me feel

a chill at my back.

Hector passed me a

cloth. I unfolded the corners:

tortillas.

"They are just a few

days old. We got them

from a village down below."

100

The bag got heavy in my hand.

Paco watched me. I

picked up a tortilla from the top, put it between

my hands:

cold,

tough,

rough,

old.

A choke

rose up in my throat,

I tried to swallow it down.

My eyes blurred

the tortilla in my hand,

disappearing

all its specks of

brown.

I heard

sounds of mouths

chewing food,

words,

closed my

eyes, rubbed the tortilla

between my fingers until

it crumbled:

dry, old, cold.

Chopán

I forced the air into my lungs,

asked Paco, "Where

were you coming

from? Where

have you been?"

He said, "A mission. We were

sent to San Fernando, where we hoped

to gather volunteers

to bring back to the camp to train."

"How many

did you get?" I asked.

Miguel answered for him, "There was no one left

to recruit. The day before we got there,

there was a massacre

in a nearby village. A village

we had been through

only a few days before.

Most of the people in San Fernando fled

when they heard the news."

My fingers tingled, my heart

got loud. "A massacre?"

Paco shook his head.

Hector poked the fire.

Ana sighed and frowned.

Miguel said, "Sí, amigo.

It was an awful

thing to see. We went straight there

after we heard the news."

102

"We were too late,"

Paco said. "Too late to kill

some soldiers."

"Too late to help

the people there at all,"

Miguel agreed. "Everything had been

burned. The houses—

gone. The fields—

destroyed. The people—

only a large pile

of dead bodies in a trench

down by the lake.

A mass grave. Very sad

to see."

No matter how much air I

breathed, I could not

fill my lungs.

"Where?" I asked. "Where?

What was the village

name?"

Miguel looked

right at me.

"Chopán."

They talked

for minutes more, describing

what they saw.

The words

floated

all around me but

could not come through

my ears, clogged

with fuzziness

until

something

pierced

through:

"... the lady with the tortillas, I saw that yellow tzut

with the birds among the heads

in the pile..."

104

Sleep

Inside my head, something

turned off,

something went

to sleep.

I blinked.

Watched myself

dust off my hands, nod

good night.

Miguel offered me his blanket,

insisted he would share with Ana

only for my sake—

wink, wink.

His blanket looked soft, warm in the middle of others,

close to the fire,

low to the ground

where the smoke did not reach.

But I stood,

walked back into the jungle,

climbed into a tree, to sleep

from a spot where I could see.

loud

I climbed

my tree, nothing to see

after all.

We had reached

that point in the climb, that moment

on the mountain when

you are stuck

in the clouds.

I could not see

up. Could not see

down. I

could only see

what was right

in front of me.

Everything else

was covered in haze. Nothing

to do but wait

until I moved

out of it. Up

or Down.

106

I Talked to God

I gripped the tree. Tried to make

a deal with God:

"If I turn around,

walk down,

I will find they are all alive."

Insects chirped, trees

whispered. God

said nothing.

"But some?" I asked.

"Someone will be there, someone

alive in that village.

Flora? Roberto?

Mama?"

God said nothing.

I squeezed the tree, felt

my throat clench.

"Did you see

what happened? Did you?

The trees saw. The earth

soaked up the blood, took in the pain. Did you

just turn away?"

Everyone

Everyone in Chopán went to church sometimes

even Santiago Luc, who still

counted the days in ancient ways,

still traveled to the caves below the old

temples, to make some smoke,

sing to the gods, chant their names.

We were all sprinkled with holy water.

We were all given the name of a saint.

We were all taught to confess our sins,

give up some of what we have to God.

I was not the only one.

We all knew the words to say, "Dios te salve, María, llena eres de gracia.

Hail Mary, full of grace."

I was not the only one.

108

Monkey

The next morning, Paco

woke me, standing

beneath my tree, shouting,

"O o o o e e e e e oo oo.

Come down, monito.

Hector is boiling café."

I smelled the coffee

bubbling over the fire as I

climbed down the tree.

Paco brought his hands

up to his shoulders, crouched down

low to the ground,

made his monkey sounds.

Hector frowned,

shook his head at Paco.

Only Miguel saw I did not mind

being called a monkey.

He laughed,

"Maybe el Señor Mono can

teach us how to sleep in a tree.

Might be better than this cold,

wet ground."

"Si, monito," Paco said." You

will have to teach us. We can't all be born

knowing how like you."

He gave my arm a gentle push.

"Not all of us are monkeys."

Sleeping in Trees

Two weeks before the army left,

all the men in our village held a secret

meeting—decided everyone must

sleep that night in the forest.

Not everyone went. Santiago Luc stayed,

wooden stool propped at the edge of the maíz, gripping his

cane, guarding our corn,

keeping it safe,

from creatures of night.

Most of us went:

babies on backs,

children ran ahead,

climbed up the side of the mountain,

leaped into the arms of the forest,

tucked themselves into beds inside bushes,

pillows of moss, blankets of leaves.

A few men climbed up

high, into the trees,

keeping watch.

I found a place,

ground soft and cool but I

could not sleep

on forest floor where things

crawl, creep, slither without

warning.

So when it was dark, I climbed

high into the branches, high

as other men, tucked myself

into the trunk, solid at my back,

where I could sleep.

110

Next morning, the sound

of people rustling in the plants

shook me awake.

We all walked down the hill to the village,

where the tops of roofs seemed to look

up at us and say,

"What are you doing up there?"

At the edge of the corn, Santiago Luc was still

there, silver hair

resting on the curved top of his cane. He

opened his eyes, crinkled

his face, cleared his throat:

"The corn is safe."

Morning

All morning, we walked.

Paco

threw sticks at trees,

talked and talked and talked and talked,

aimed his gun into the sky until

Miguel

made him stop,

told some jokes,

whistled a tune,

asked for just one kiss from

Ana

shook her head,

walked faster than us all, always in the lead,

didn't say much but sent

smiles to me and worried looks toward

Hector

walked in the back, always

last glancing over his shoulder now and then

not saying much at all, nothing to

me.

112

Marching

I walked

beside them

all morning,

my footsteps

matched their

own, just

like I

was marching

with them,

just like

I was

brave enough,

strong enough,

old enough

to fight

for my

village, fight

for my

home, fight

like a

man.

Not Afraid

Paco said he was not afraid

of the army.

He rested his hand

upon his gun,

said he could not wait

to feel the thrill

of watching some die.

He wanted to kill

one soldier for each

person in his village—gone.

He counted them, fingers shooting

up for each one he named:

"Maria Gomez, just a teacher,

she was the first, then they shot

her brother, Jaime.

"Mariano Choc is three," he said, holding up

another finger. "They hung him from a tree."

Paco kept counting.

I put my fingers

in my pocket, fit as many

marbles in my hand as I could,

shot them

from my fingertips

to the bottom of my pocket

one at a time, counting.

"Number nine was Padre Polanco—can you believe

they would shoot a priest?"

114

Paco kept counting.

I put my fingers

in my pocket, shooting

marbles, counting

each shot

I made.

"Then they met some men at the docks, took them

away, nobody knows where.

Gregorio, Ernesto, and Tío Julian—eleven, twelve, thirteen."

He put his fingers down, dropped his

hands to his sides,

shrugged. "Thirteen is a lot of people

disappeared

from just one tiny village."

I squeezed the marbles, thought

about all the people squeezed

into the house with Flora, counted up her family,

my fingers in my pocket:

Thirteen.

Thirteen people in her house

alone. How many

in all of Chopán?

An Invitation

Paco said, "You should join us,

monito. Come

with us to the camp."

I moved my hand

inside my pocket, wrapped my fingers

around the marbles.

"Sí, si," said Miguel. "You

have the look of a captain

in the making."

I said,

"I don't know."

Fingers on the marbles.

"Come on, amigo. We

can fight together."

"Paco signed up, I think,

just to get some good-bye kisses

from all the girls in his village."

Paco laughed, nodded, said, "Ah—

maybe that is the problem. Maybe

Carlos has a girl at home he cannot

bear to leave. What is her name, monito?

The prettiest girl in your village?"

I shook my head,

tried to clear away

my mind but

too late. I saw the faces

before me, faces of

116

Chopán. I felt

my throat start to close

stood up, crawled

up on the rock behind me, big enough

for me to stand, tall

enough for me to see

over the trees.

The View

From that high I saw

Xuba, the volcano—

used to be the thing

our village feared the most.

118

The Rock

I was sitting on the rock

above the heads and sounds

of my companions. I took

out the marbles, lined them up

in a groove

on the stone.

Wondered

how it would feel to hold

a gun,

aim it at

another man.

Wondered if

I squeezed

the trigger I

could destroy

the laughter I heard

in my dreams,

erase it

blow it

into many pieces

never

have to hear the sound

again.

I concentrated so hard on shutting

out the sound

that I did not hear

footsteps behind me.

Marbles

Paco scooped some up in his hands, shook them

side to side in his palms.

"I had marbles when I was

little," he said.

My heart pumped heat

into my cheeks.

"I just like the way they feel

in my pocket," I said.

"Smooth, slick, always cool."

Paco squeezed them in his fingers,

nodded his head at my words, then

grinned at me. "I'll shoot you

for them. Winner gets keeps."

I shrugged.

Like it did not matter.

We played. Shot marbles

on the ground.

I watched Paco pinch

his fingers around the shooter, pinch

his eyes up every time, and when

I took the final piece,

he shrugged his shoulders in defeat,

I shrugged mine too as if

it did not matter.

I slid them back

into my pocket with a secret

sigh, felt myself

unclench, let out a

breath I did not know

I held.

120

Guerilla

I imagined

how I would look

with bullets for a belt.

I wondered

if Miguel

would take them away

when he found out I did

nothing to stop the army from taking Chopán.

I pictured

myself arriving at the camp in Ixchandé,

pictured myself shooting soldiers, taking

revenge for all of Chopán.

I remembered

Mama urging me to stay away,

Santiago saying this was not our war.

I realized

I had nowhere else to go.

In the Sky

Paco was telling me about this girl

in his village—Dominga—describing her with

words like flowers, with his hand upon his heart,

talking loud enough for everyone, everything

in the trees to hear, too loud

to have fear

or shame

when we heard

the helicopters

122

We Ducked

Miguel did not need to tell me

to find a bush,

make myself lower than the leaves,

tuck my face into my knees

and be

still.

We all took cover,

waited

still

quiet

until

the sound of spinning blades

faded.

Miguel's arm pulled me

out from branches thick

with thorns. He tugged

on the sweater around my waist.

"Monito, your sweater

is too handsome for these woods. Let me

tuck it safe inside my pack until the night."

I moved my fingers to untie the knot of sleeves,

noticed my hands

were shaking. Miguel must have seen

this too but he said only,

"You will need

fatigues, clothes green as trees, if

you stay with us."

I handed him my sweater,

slowed down my breaths.

124

Rebel Attire

"Your clothes," I said. "They are the same

as the army's."

"Not quite," he said. "We have rubber boots—not leather.

And our guns are not as fast.

But Carlos—"

I saw a twinkle in his eye.

"You can always

tell the difference

between the army and the rebels."

He moved his hand up to his hair,

weaved his fingers into curls.

"We rebels have more hair,"

he said, and winked.

"And so we have more women."

Ana cleared her throat

behind me so I would turn to see her

roll her eyes.

Miguel's arm pulled me

out from branches thick

with thorns. He tugged

on the sweater around my waist.

"Monito, your sweater

is too handsome for these woods. Let me

tuck it safe inside my pack until the night."

I moved my fingers to untie the knot of sleeves,

noticed my hands

were shaking. Miguel must have seen

this too but he said only,

"You will need

fatigues, clothes green as trees, if

you stay with us."

I handed him my sweater,

slowed down my breaths.

124

Rebel Attire

"Your clothes," I said. "They are the same

as the army's."

"Not quite," he said. "We have rubber boots—not leather.

And our guns are not as fast.

But Carlos—"

I saw a twinkle in his eye.

"You can always

tell the difference

between the army and the rebels."

He moved his hand up to his hair,

weaved his fingers into curls.

"We rebels have more hair,"

he said, and winked.

"And so we have more women."

Ana cleared her throat

behind me so I would turn to see her

roll her eyes.

Stop for Lunch

Miguel decided we should

just rest there

for a bit. My stomach felt sharp pricks

of too much

empty space.

But Miguel's pack

had no more cans, the tortilla sack

was bare. "We will get some food

at the village up ahead," he said.

So we chewed on leaves,

ate some roots, busied our mouths

to fool our stomachs. Only Paco complained:

"I am starving,

mucha ! My pants are way too loose. This has to be the longest

I have gone without meat to chew."

Hector grunted. Miguel

just laughed, "Paco, be glad you are too

young to have traveled with a crew

up the shore to work the land—

las fincas."

Paco shook his head, "You can't fool me,

Miguel. Raúl told me the rich farmer feeds his crews,

hires women to cook up

what the workers like."

Hector grunted again.

Miguel laughed even more, his shoulders

moving up and down,

up and down. "Sí,

amigo. This is true—if

what you like is frijoles. Only beans

to eat—every day—no meat,

126

no fish, no tortillas to pack

a belly tight."

Paco said

nothing. Just frowned.

Then Miguel pointed his finger

to me, "That

is why we fight, Carlos,

against the rich man

whose fathers' fathers took our land,

who gives us just

a handful of beans, centavos,

for cutting sugarcane or picking cotton from the earth,

the cotton that is the grandchild of

our grandfather's seeds.

One day, amigo,

we campesinos will defeat

the men who hold us down,

take back our Guatemala."

I nodded like

I understood, but I was confused, thinking

of the richest man I knew,

Juan Choc Túc,

remembering

how the army had hated him, too.

Stop for Lunch

Miguel decided we should

just rest there

for a bit. My stomach felt sharp pricks

of too much

empty space.

But Miguel's pack

had no more cans, the tortilla sack

was bare. "We will get some food

at the village up ahead," he said.

So we chewed on leaves,

ate some roots, busied our mouths

to fool our stomachs. Only Paco complained:

"I am starving,

mucha ! My pants are way too loose. This has to be the longest

I have gone without meat to chew."

Hector grunted. Miguel

just laughed, "Paco, be glad you are too

young to have traveled with a crew

up the shore to work the land—

las fincas."

Paco shook his head, "You can't fool me,

Miguel. Raúl told me the rich farmer feeds his crews,

hires women to cook up

what the workers like."

Hector grunted again.

Miguel laughed even more, his shoulders

moving up and down,

up and down. "Sí,

amigo. This is true—if

what you like is frijoles. Only beans

to eat—every day—no meat,

126

no fish, no tortillas to pack

a belly tight."

Paco said

nothing. Just frowned.

Then Miguel pointed his finger

to me, "That

is why we fight, Carlos,

against the rich man

whose fathers' fathers took our land,

who gives us just

a handful of beans, centavos,

for cutting sugarcane or picking cotton from the earth,

the cotton that is the grandchild of

our grandfather's seeds.

One day, amigo,

we campesinos will defeat

the men who hold us down,

take back our Guatemala."

I nodded like

I understood, but I was confused, thinking

of the richest man I knew,

Juan Choc Túc,

remembering

how the army had hated him, too.

Music

Miguel took out a . flauta,

small, smooth,

the color of bone.

He blew

warm air into one end;

it came out from the other end, light,

cool, like a whistle, sounded

like flat rocks skipping

on top of a lake, leaving

little ripples behind.

He did not play a song, just

made his fingers dance

over the top of each hole, fingers flapping

up and down

like the wings of a bird. It made

the jungle air feel lighter,

softer, t h i n n e r.

I took a breath and felt

my chest grow.

Miguel saw my smile,

asked, "Do you make music, Carlos?"

I shook my head

from side to side, but found

myself making music

in my mind:

the light, hollow sound

of the marimba.

128

Roberto's Father

Roberto's father played the marimba.

He'd tuck his mallets under his arm, and we

would help him carry it,

big empty box of wood,

nothing inside but air. Until

He lined up with other men,

Stiff jackets in a row,

Necks gripped tight

With ties,

Heads down,

Arms stretched out to reach

the wooden keys,

their heads all bowed down

together. A dance of concentration.

Sticks tapping lightly,

clink

clank

clink

tapping the music

tink

tank

tink

Making the hearts of the whole village

tink

clank

clink

dance and sing with happiness. Until

129

they took him

lined up with other men

stiff jackets in a row

necks gripped tight

heads down

arms stretched out to reach the end.

The Marimba

It sat silent,

empty, behind the shed.

Roberto's mother asked him to

"Bring it out.

Dust it off.

Please. Make it sing."

He told her, "No

heart in the village

feels like dancing."

131

Hector

Hector did not talk

much. And when he did, it was in his lengua,

one I did not understand.

Hector had not said anything

about me staying with their group,

training in Ixchandé. When Paco brought it up again,

urged me to fight, Miguel

hushed him with,

"Paco, leave him be.

Maybe this is not his war."

I saw Hector

grip his gun, point his

back a little straighter.

I did not understand

the words he spoke next, but

his face was stretched

red and tight.

Miguel listened, then

said, "Cuidado,

amigo. That fire

will burn your soul.

When you open the door to hate, you will find

it swallows you whole

and there is no

life left inside."

When Miguel was finished, he looked right

at me, his face

serious for just a flash. I noticed then

that his words were in Spanish and so I

could understand.

Walking

We were walking then so high

that my ears felt tightly stuffed.

Every now and then we heard

army blades

turning in the sky.

Once the sound was loud

enough, close enough,

to duck again.

This time, I saw Paco

grab his gun, point

it up, get his finger ready.

Miguel

pushed down Paco's arm,

lowered his gun, said,

"Do not waste

your bullets,

shooting at the sky."

133

Helicopter Clouds

I remember

one day in the cornfield,

seeing the army fly

over our village,

up, alongside

the mountain,

hearing them move

like a storm cloud

over the trees,

raining down bullets

onto the leaves.

I remember

asking Santiago why

they would waste

their bullets, shoot

when they see

nothing.

He said,

"A man who throws

a thousand stones

into the lake is not

trying to hit

a fish, just

make all the fish

afraid enough to

swim away."

Waiting

Even though they had their guns,

their belts of pointed bullets,

my companions were not hunters.

Hector aimed for a bird in a tree, hoping,

craving meat to eat, but his shot

only sent the bird away.

When Paco tried, his bullet

bounced from the tree, caused

all of us to duck.

I laughed.

Paco grinned, offered up his gun

so I could be the one

bringing us a meal. I shook

my head, told him there was a better way

to get some meat.

Then I showed them

how to gather twigs, use some vine,

make a trap, showed them which flowers smell

sweet enough to be perfect

bait. Then I showed them how to

wait—

sit beneath the leaves,

still as a trunk,

silent as roots,

waiting, watching,

watching, waiting,

until something came along.

135

Something

I did not see it

creeping up to Hector, smelling

with its tongue.

"Culebra!" Paco said,

using the end of his rifle

to point at the ground in front of Hector's boot.

Hector did not make a move.

Miguel pulled out

his knife, bent his knees,

moved his arm.

"¡Esperate! " I said. "Stop!"

Miguel did not take his eyes off

the snake on the ground, but turned

his head to me.

I took three steps, leaned

my head in close, saw its tiny

stripes.

"It has no

venom, mirá, look. It will not

cause us harm."

I moved my hand—quick—to its neck,

grabbed it behind its head, swung

my hand back behind my shoulders, and let it

fly away.

Miguel laughed. Hector

nodded. Paco said,

"¡Púchica! That was

some throw!"

In the Trap

The rabbit was small, shivering,

brown, eyes wide with fear.

Hector snapped its neck, slit

its hide, put it on a stick.

Turned it around and around

over the fire while we all waited.

Paco said it was hard

to wait for a bite of juicy meat.

I thought so too, until I touched

the fur on the ground by Hector:

soft

still warm

When I took a bite of flesh,

all I could taste was smoke.

137

Campfire

The sun disappeared

as Patrichál came into view.

We stopped to sleep

just down the mountain from the village.

With lips that tasted meat,

Paco was in a better mood, whistling

by the fire, asking Hector

to tell a story.

Hector shook his head.

Paco looked at me. "Tío Julian,

the father of Ana and Hector,

is the storyteller in our village. At night, after fiestas, people

go to his sitio, wait

to hear his stories."

"What kind of stories?" asked Miguel.

Paco said, "All kinds.

But mostly he would tell

the tales the old ones passed along."

Shadows from the flames

began to dance

on Hector's face.

Paco turned

to me. "Do you

have a person in your village who

tells the stories?"

I did not mean to speak, but

my mouth opened:

"Santiago."

138

"He is old?" Paco asked.

I nodded.

"Do you know

any of his tales?"

I had heard

many of his stories but what my tongue revealed was this:

"He believes

in nahuales.

Tells stories about boys

who see their spirit animal when

they become men."

"Sí," said Paco.

"My abuela told me once there were

shape-shifters, black-magic people who

turned into animals at night, slipped

all over town in darkness."

"No, no," I said. "This

is different. These are spirits who

help us find our purpose,

protect us, travel with us, keep us safe."

"And they are animals?" Paco asked.

"Yes."

"Like a monkey?"

I only smiled.

139

"Sí, sí, mucha," said Miguel.

"This is true you know. I have two.

One is a jaguar, smooth

and fast, and one

is a fox." He winked at Ana.

She laughed, wagged

her finger, and spoke.

"Yours is a rooster, fat,

proud, loud."

I smiled, closed my eyes and saw

Señor Pancho,

Flora's rooster,

how he strutted around the hens,

the boss of the whole pen.

I remember.

I Remember

I remember the sound

of Santiago

singing

like the song came from his nose—deep

no instruments making music, just his voice singing words,

making my heart hum

I remember the feel

of Mama's

cheeks

always smooth, slick

as a hill painted with mud

always calm, cool

when I would run to her,

my face hot with fear

I remember the taste

of balloons

when you blow them up before a festival:

gritty, bitter, stuck

on your tongue like you just licked a thousand spoons

I remember the smell

of Flora's

hair

cold and warm, like a sunny breeze was captured on each strand

like the tiny flowers her grandmother grew behind their house—

the ones you chewed to make your stomach calm

I remember

the bush

in front of the church

where I could fit inside

cool ground

no sound

branches hiding

me from everyone, a way to disappear

but still be there

141

I remember

my village

the way the corners met, the places where puddles

gathered and houses cast shade and the paint on the wall of

my neighbor that was peeled off in the shape of an owl

There

I searched for a tree to climb to see

the village up ahead

at last

we were there

I felt some calm until

my heart fluttered its wings and I shook

away the thought that

tomorrow would be here soon

Tomorrow Abuela would ask

where Mama was, how I

could leave her behind

Tomorrow my new friends would know

how small I was

Tomorrow I would need to choose

what to do

where to go

Tomorrow

I might be brave

enough to be a soldier of the army of the people, brave

enough to stop running away

tomorrow

I started to climb a tree but saw

it was taken by an owl,

who did not look my way, just

dove into the night, off to find

a meal

143

Woke Up in the Dark

I woke up

in my tree

with a snap

fast

like something had pinched me

awake I heard

nothing but in front of me I saw

the owl

perched on the same branch as me

closer than we'd ever been

I knew I could reach out

touch his feathers

but I didn't

I watched him

watch me

for a while then I

closed my eyes

smelled his scent

warm soft full

from a night

of hunting

I wondered

where he had

been, what

he had seen,

what

he had

killed

"Whoo!"

144

He called me

awake, pulled my eyes open,

stared into my face, calling,

like he was speaking right to

me. It made

my heart thump in my chest and

suddenly

I was afraid.

He looked

at me, gave a hoot, dove

into the night.

I gripped

my tree, caught

my breath, strained my ears to hear.

He was gone.

But far away

in the sky

I could hear thunder.

Not Thunder

helicopters

146

I Knew

They were coming

there

right there

right then

"Wake up!" I yelled to the blankets by the trail of smoke,

"¡Apúrense! Quick! They are coming!"

I did not tell my body what to do it just

moved

down the tree

up the ground

through the cold wet gray

running

climbing

scurry

hurry up

into the village

straight to the place

my feet knew to go

Abuela

She was stooped

outside her hut, pushing

logs into a pile,

preparing to build a fire before

the sun arrived.

"They Are Coming! Now! The Army! Quick!"

My words

were in a pant.

She raised

up her shoulders, dropped

her wood, moved her hands

up to her face.

"Carlos?"

"Get everyone

to the trees!"

I gulped

three more breaths

then

ran.

148

I Ran

all over the village

I ran

knocking on doors

I ran

calling out a warning

I ran

from one house to the next

I ran

my arms spread wide like wings

I ran

pushing and pecking them all in front of me

I ran

moving all of Patrichál, every last one of them, into the trees

I flew

In the Woods

Every person in that tiny village stood

huddled in the woods,

waiting for

me.

I came in last, saw them standing in a huddle, unsure.

"Scatter!" I said. "Don't

bunch up. Climb a tree."

A woman lifted

her daughter onto a branch, climbed

up behind her. A few other

people moved. But most stayed

in a huddle,

arms empty,

eyes on me.

150

The People of Patrichál

I noticed then

they were small:

grandmothers shrunken in,

grandfathers bent on canes,

children.

I scooped up a

boy, placed him on

a limb, said,

"Wrap your arms

around the trunk as tight

as you can. See if you can stand there

in that hug

without shaking

a single leaf."

Hurry

the sound of blades

slicing the sky

thud thud thud thud

was clear then

thud thud thud thud

near then

loud

thud thud thud thud

only a dozen or two

people to tuck

into trees

thud thud thud thud

there was a girl

my age

thud thud thud thud

helping

thud thud thud thud

with hair woven into an orange ribbon

when the ground

held no more

feet I

climbed

thud thud thud thud

into a tree

of my own and looked

up to the sky

thud thud thud thud

the trees were thick

there I could not see

thud thud thud thud

helicopter blades but

thud thud thud thud

I could hear them loud

152

THUD THUD THUD THUD

then

BOOM

like

something

crashed

inside

chest

ears

e x p l o d e d

the

trees

rang

swayed

but

stayed

put

Smoke

The sky

hissed

again and again

rain of death

dropped thuds to

the earth below

soon

the morning pink was smothered

up by gray

thick and strong:

smoke

154

I Saw

I put my eyes on the place where Patrichál was

I saw black

I saw gray smoke choking everything

I saw flames smoke moving fast flying up

finding a way to leave

I saw it all

I saw

I did not look away

even though the smoke came to my eyes stung

I saw

did

not

blink

Patrichál

tunnels of smoke thick and dark

shot from all over the village, like

a cornfield with no rows,

the smoke all came together in the sky,

spread wide, reached

me in my tree,

covered up the whole mountain,

smothered everything

156

Minutes Later

the thuds

stopped

the hisses

gone

the sound of blades

faded

I blinked my eyes

looked around

smoke thick

trees thick

I saw

no one

Sounds

a baby cried

just then

I heard

a mother shuffle whisper

I closed my eyes

let out a breath let go

of the tree

158

The People of Patrichál

They were safe

all of them

feet back on the ground

they came together

from the trees, walked together,

and stood there together

looking at me

just like before

every head was there

Mis Compañeros

I was standing on the ground when my stomach felt

like I was falling from a tree.

Mis compañeros.

¿Dónde están?

"Stay here," I said to all of Patrichál,

then turned.

160

Thick Smoke

The smoke was thick

I could not see

I ran

I could not see

down the side where I thought the campfire was

I could not see

I stopped to listen

nothing moved

except the flames

in the trees

Circles

I walked in circles

from bush to bush

looking for:

guns

arms

a red bandanna

arms

guns

looking for,

from bush to bush

I walked in circles

until

I tripped

fell

something

on the ground

162

La Flauta

I bent

to put it in my hands

smooth as bone

unbroken, whole

from this low

on the ground I saw the hole

Inside

Behind the tree,

fallen years ago,

the earth moved aside—a trench. Inside

Hector

waved. Ana

coughed. Miguel

climbed out first.

164

Talking in Smoke

"You are okay?"

I asked.

He waved away smoke

from his face. "Sí,

amigo, you

woke us up just in time

to find a place to hide."

"But the bombs?"

"They aimed for the trail of smoke

our campfire left.

We ran so fast, we left

our blankets on the ground.

I'm sure the army thought

we were tucked asleep inside."

I smiled.

He chuckled then, slapped

me on the back.

"You saved us, Carlos,

with your screech from the trees.

Woke us from our dreams.

We ran toward your voice."

I looked at Ana,

watched her smile, saw

Hector wipe his face.

"And Paco?"

Miguel's smile

stopped.

"He was climbing up your tree...."

Paco

"Paco!"

"Paco."

"¡Paco!"

"Paco?

¿Dónde estás?"

we scattered

into smoke

running

calling

"¿Paco?"

"Paco!"

"¡Paco!"

166

Flames

I saw flames

from trees

flames

from the village

flames

through the smoke

I did not see

Paco

In the Trees

I found

the people of Patrichál

standing together

still

in the same spot.

No Paco.

Miguel came up the other side.

No Paco.

He looked at them, said, "Have you seen

a boy in fatigues—Paco?"

No one moved. Abuela turned

to me, spoke

in lengua, "Tell this man

we have done nothing

wrong. Ask him please

to leave our mountain, leave

us with some peace."

I blinked.

Shook my head.

"No, Abuela. He is not

one of them. He did not

drop the bombs. He is not

a soldier, just a rebel."

She said, "They

are one and the same."

168

Two Tongues

No one in Patrichál knew

the Spanish tongue so I

stood between the people of the mountain

and the guerilla rebels

and tried to build a bridge,

one word at a time.

Help

No person from the village

wanted to help

the rebels, dressed

for war, carrying guns,

but when I

asked for help to find a friend

a boy

everyone began to search.

170

Searching

The smoke was thinning then. It was clear

the village

was destroyed

but no one moved

to gather things burning up inside

instead everyone

searched bushes low for Paco.

Everyone except me.

I Climbed a Tree

in out in

out in out in

out in out in out

in out in out in out in

out in My breath was fast

step pull step pull step pull step

pull step pull step pull step pull

step pull I climbed a tree

arms squeezed

tree swayed

eyes closed

opened my eyes,

looked around.

172

I Could See

Smoke wove

in and out of leaves.

I could see

searching people

dying fires

falling leaves.

A few birds circled, looking down in alarm.

The sun was out.

The birds would find

another place to land.

I saw one spread its wings, glide

through limbs above. It was wide

enough to be the owl.

I watched him

seem to fly in place,

like he was waiting

for my eyes to find him there.

Then he

dove. Over to the right,

quickly almost out of sight,

and landed on a branch

higher than me.

Under that branch, over my head, stuck to the trunk,

I could see

Paco,

almost

disappeared.

Through the Trees

I moved

from branch to branch,

sweeping silently,

until I was there—

underneath him,

close enough to see

his hands, gripping the tree,

knuckles white,

skin stretched tight.

174

No Answer

"Paco!"

"¿Paco?"

"Where did you learn to climb so high?

Or did you maybe fly?"

"Paco?"

"Paco."

"Paco—look at me."

Underneath the Limb

"Paco, escuchá.

Listen to me now.

It is over. They are gone. No more

thunder in the sky. Listen.

"Paco, listen.

Everyone is safe. Everyone

got out.

Safe. In the trees

like you.

"Paco?"

176

He Spoke

"I ran. I hid.

I climbed a tree.

Frozen. Like a child."

Down

I looked up

at him for a moment, saw his arms

gripped tight, his eyes

closed. I

took a deep breath.

"Sí," I said. "Yes.

Like a child you climbed, high

into this tree, to find a place safe

so you could live

to be a man. Yes,

like a child you hid, found

some leaves thick

enough to tuck yourself

away. Yes. But.

Paco. Now you must

come down. One foot at a time.

Chin pointed straight ahead.

Because when you do that,

when you leave this tree,

when you put your feet back on the ground,

you will be a man."

178

Climbing Down

Paco looked at me.

I told him

with my eyes

that I understood.

He nodded, took a breath,

and then

climbed down.

In Patrichál

Soon people saw us walking through

the trees and the news

that he was found spread.

Here he is!

¡Aquí está!

He is here!

We all walked together

to the village, smoking still.

The flames were finishing their meal,

looking tired and full.

Chickens pecked the ground, not afraid

to burn their beaks,

the woodpile by Abuela's kitchen

had been swallowed whole.

There was much

to do.

180

In Two Tongues

Abuela asked, right away,

"Carlos, what are you doing

here? Why are you with

these soldiers? Where

is your mother?"

I dropped

my chin, looked at my feet. Then

raised my eyes back up.

Gave her words in lengua. Then

gave the words again

to Miguel in español.

"The army came.

Came to Chopán.

Left nothing behind

except a boy,

a child, hiding in a tree, not yet

old enough, brave enough,

to bring them to a stop."

Abuela touched her fingers

to her lips, closed her eyes,

whispered prayers up to the skies.

Miguel clasped my shoulder,

said, "Carlos,

we are lucky to have found you,

lucky to have been helped

by such a man."

I looked behind

him at Paco,

who nodded, said,

"Thank you, Carlos. You saved

my life."

Time to Leave

Miguel said, "We must leave,

head down the other side. We are close

now to the camp. We must warn them

of the bombs."

Paco said, "But

the village?"

"They will be safer

when we are on our way."

Even though Abuela

could not understand their words, I saw

her gather up some corn and squash

from a pile behind her shed.

She pushed it at them, then

told them with her eyes

it was time for them to leave.

I looked around and saw

all eyes on me.

182

What I Saw Before Me

A man with a red bandanna, grand ideas, the face of one who's strong,

a woman, proud but kind,

her brother, ready and prepared,

their cousin, a man, choosing his own path.

A village

small, quiet,

where no one spoke the language

of war,

a village full of people,

full of work to be done.

The Voices I Heard

Mama: "Stay away from those soldiers, Carlos."

Mateo: "Carlos always does what he is told."

Mateo: "It is time to be a man."

Miguel: "They've left us no other choice, no other path but to stand

up and fight."

Mateo: "A man would fight for his village. Keep it safe."

Santiago: "It is not our war."

Miguel: "The army has taken

away our land, scared

away our freedom, silenced

the voices of all those we love forever."

But I could still hear voices.

They were not doused

with fire.

A person's voice cannot be buried

deep into the earth.

It will walk on forever, as long

as there are open ears.

184

What I Could Do

I could

show the children how to catch a rabbit,

guard a ball, dig up roots.

I could

take the words in lengua, of the old ones,

turn them into Spanish,

when people come.

I could

chop wood,

gather eggs,

feed the chickens.

And when the time comes,

I could

show them all

how to sleep in trees.

Good-bye

I gave Ana

a hug, sent Hector a nod,

shook Miguel's hand, then

reached into my pocket,

handed Paco my marbles,

looked him in the eye,

said, "Keep them safe."

He gripped

my hand, nodded

his head, said,

"Que te vaya bien."

186

Later That Night

After the fires had turned to smoke,

supplies had been moved,

things had been shifted,

I sat

in a circle with all of Patrichál, listening

to an old man chant

some prayers. The incense he burned

cleared out all other smells in my nose,

filled it with something

new. When he finished, we ate

together. Some people sang. A few children fell

asleep in their mothers' arms.

When one asked me

where I'd been,

how I got to Patrichál,

I was not sure what to say.

After a pause, my mouth began

to move on its own:

"Do you know

about nahuales ?" I asked.

The children shook their heads. I saw the old man

with the prayers look over to me, nod.

"They are animals," I said. "Spirits who

follow us around,

show us what we're meant to do,

and keep us safe.

One day when you are older

you will see."

A small boy at my feet was digging

in the dirt. "Do you have one?" he asked.

"Is it a jaguar?"

187

I turned, looked to the trees,

now shadows in the dark.

"It is a secret," I said. "Something

we keep inside."

He gathered up his marbles, grabbed

onto my hand. I found myself

leaning down, putting my face

to his ear.

"But I can tell you this," I whispered near.

"I am safe."

188

Names in Stone

"Papi, where is my abuela's name?"

she asks, one finger pointing down the list

carved into stone.

"You will find her,"

I say, watching her scan down

the list of names.

"We will find her,

today. Finally."

I move my eyes

down the list. Each time

I see a name, I see a face,

hear a voice.

One hundred fifty-four names on this list. But my eyes are drawn

like magnets to some right away.

Santiago Luc,

Mateo Andrés Xocol Uc,

Roberto Manuel Quíc Martín,

The name of my tía Rosa has a dash

to the side with an added infant child,

and I wonder once again what name

my cousin had.

Today is

the day.

After days and years spent arguing

in courts, today we watch

men peel away

the soil, dig into the earth,

carry up the secrets

that were buried years ago.

192

Today, Chopán gets its turn

to speak.

It has been a town of ghosts

for far too many years.

Today, those of us who lived

here return.

I was not the only one.

Not the only person to survive.

Some were away that day, working

at the coast, or selling squash at the market in San Fernando.

Others ran.

Like me, they ran.

Fled to the trees. Hid

in bushes, found a way

to stay alive.

Today our roots

pull us back so we can make things

right for those we loved.

"Aquí!" she says. "I see it.

María Catalina Ramón Có."

"Sí, mija.

A lovely name it is."

"That's why you

gave it to me to share?"

I nod, even though her face has turned

back to the stone, her lips continue

sounding out the names.

193

Just then I feel

a hand upon my shoulder,

turn around to see

a woman, smiling up at me.

"Carlos?" She puts her hand upon her cheek, sweeps

her eyes over my face,

and laughs out loud.

"You are younger in my head—just a boy."

She laughs a quiet laugh

and gives a sigh. "I am sure

you do not remember

who I am."

I bend my face down close

to hers, take a breath

full of surprise. "Flora?"

I say, squeezing

my daughter's hand.

The woman laughs again.

I smile.

"I remember."

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