Let Their Spirits Dance by Stella Pope Duarte

Author:Stella Pope Duarte [Stella Pope Duarte]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780061748417
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2007-09-20T04:00:00+00:00

• WE’RE PILGRIMS OF AZTLÁN, heading east, following the rising sun, on our own quest, una manda, searching out an invisible trek in a maze of voices calling, prayers, magical words, singsong chants of the ancient world, good wishes, broken promises, pain, traveling through the whiteness of Aztlán. My mother, the beginning of it all, is blind to all she’s done. We’re pilgrims on a journey to America’s wailing wall. Only faith will get us there.

Changing Landscapes ·

We stop at a rest area close to Flagstaff, in the middle of the Coconino National Forest. The bathrooms are brick structures with toilets that really flush. I walk around a huge pine tree, measuring its rough circumference with my hands, smelling the bark, hoping to catch a whiff of resin, copal for Don Florencío’s fire. The kids start running around, punching each other, shouting. Other Sunday picnickers sit on wooden tables, preparing food, drinking coffee. The sun is moving to the center of the world, making the pine trees’ shadows lean closer to their trunks. My lungs respond to the sweet mountain air. Manuel and I walk up a trail that leads into the forest.

An elderly couple approach us, smiling. The man has his arm around his wife. He’s helping her walk over the uneven ground. She’s reaching out, one thin arm extended in front of her, as if she’s walking on ice.

“Are you folks headed for the Vietnam Wall?” the man asks.

“Yes, we are.”

“I saw the signs on the window of the van.”

“My nephew’s idea.”

“I had a son who served in Vietnam—James Kinney. He made it through, thank God. He’s not on the Wall.”

“He was lucky. My brother wasn’t so lucky. He was killed in 1968.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“It’s sad,” the woman says. “All the boys killed over there.” She looks at me and I know she wants to cry. “Is that your mother over there?” She points to Mom, sitting with Irene at a picnic table.

“Yes, it is. That’s why we’re on the road. Mom made a promise to touch my brother’s name on the Vietnam Wall.”

“And all these other people?”

“Family and friends,” Manuel says.

She looks around at everyone. “This is wonderful. Have a safe trip.” She leans close to her husband, and her action reminds me of the time Dad picked up Mom in his arms at the airport after Jesse’s plane took off.

“She’s been ill,” he says. “But she’s a trouper, aren’t you, sweetheart?”

She nods. “We’ll be in touch with you. Barry will take down the web address.”

“Barry and Eleanor Kinney. We’ll be in touch,” her husband says, and they walk away.

“Hey, Manuel, we’re getting famous.”

“Michael was right. A little publicity is good for us.”

I stand still and close my eyes. “Breathe in the air, Manuel.” I’m taking in deep, piny breaths. “Jesse would have loved this!” I look up. Manuel is staring up at the trees.

“There’s lots of space between them. It doesn’t look that way from the road.”

“What?”

“The spaces between the trees. Some of the trees are burned.

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