Free Tortilla Sun by Jennifer Cervantes

Come, come.”
    Outside, the cool air cut through my sleepiness. The flashlight lit the path in front of us. I followed close as Nana led me down the trail toward the other side of the river.
    At the water’s edge the currents tumbled past in a sea of white that reflected the light of the moon. With each step I thought about my dad. Did it hurt to drown? Had he been afraid?
    Nana and I crossed the swaying bridge held together loosely by wood planks and rope.
    She gripped my hand. “Be careful where you step. This bridge is very old and sometimes moves so much I think it might throw me over.”
    We reached the top of a cliff that overlooked the valley below. By the moonlight, the life beyond the river stood still. The quiet ached for attention.
    “What’s a
yerba
?”
    “Herbs. And they must be picked at the right time. There are cycles I must respect, like the lunar cycle.”
    We hiked along the edge of the cliff, and even though I didn’t completely understand what we were doing, I felt part of something. Kind of like being picked first for a team at school. Nana’s head moved back and forth as she surveyed the land in front of her. She crouched over the ground and picked up handfuls of dirt, sifting each through her small fingers.
    “Ah, yes, here it is.” Nana dropped down onto her knees. “Come take a closer look.”
    I got down on all fours and pushed my face close to the ground. “I don’t see anything.”
    “Here. Shine the light over here.” She pointed to a small three-leafed plant barely sticking out of the earth.
    “See?” she whispered.
    “Why are we whispering?”
    “We don’t want to wake the village,
mija
.”
    “No one can hear us up here.”
    She raised her left eyebrow. “Oh,
sí
. The sounds of this valley carry for miles. I can hear even the smallest bird calling across this river from the
casa
.”
    She pointed again at the plant. “This is a medicinal plant and it is very powerful. It is the most potent at night and can only be plucked from the earth under the light of the moon. It won’t have the same power if it is picked tomorrow. Timing is the most important thing.”
    She removed a small velvet pouch from her waist and gently tugged on the plant. “When you pull the
yerba
from its home, you must always leave some of the root behind, so the plant has a place to heal and grow.”
    The moonlight cast a soft shadow across half of Nana’s smooth round face and for a moment I got a glimpse of what she might have looked like when she was young.
    “What does it do?” I asked.
    Nana smiled. “This
yerba
is one of the most special because it can only be picked once every twelve months. But a little goes a long way. This is part of what goes into my
tortillas
. It is a secret my own nana shared with me.”
    Beyond the village, the Albuquerque lights flickered like a thousand tiny twinkling stars. A distant howl flew on the edge of an approaching wind; within seconds it had found us on the mesa. It whipped around, loosening Nana’s bun and then descended into the village below, gliding like a ghost.

13
Some Threads are Shorter than Others
    The next morning Nana stood on the back portal beating dust from a rug while I watered the potted flowers. Just as I turned off the hose, Frida dashed across the lawn toward me, meowing loudly. Looping and winding through my legs, she whimpered as I crouched down and scratched under her chin.
    “What is it, girl? Where’s Maggie?”
    Without a word, Nana gathered up her skirt and scampered across the lawn. I followed behind her down the hillside. I didn’t need to ask where we were going.
    When we arrived at Gip’s little
adobe
home, Gip was on the bumpy tile floor; she lay very still. Maggie sat on a tattered rug next to her, stroking her hair and whispering, “I’m here, Gip.”
    “What happened?” Nana asked as she rushed to Gip’s side.
    “Gip looked tired. Maybe that’s why she falled on the coffee table.” Maggie rubbed the tears