2 Una Alma Perdida

Raindrops splatter on the ground as everyone around me looks up, but that's not right. I look down and watch as these tiny spheres burst open. They are completely unoriginal in shape, it's like snowballs, or tears (or like the snot that's leaking out of mi tío's nose).

They're like lumpy, rigid circles that were never meant to end. But they do every time they fall and with everything they touch. These raindrops burst with a speed that has me wondering if they just don't want to exist anymore.

And a part of me understands it in some way. Like when the older kids talk about sneaking out through the windows that are up high enough, that they may just splatter if they take that jump. But nothing can stop them from meeting the weekend half way. Or like when the adults talk about the future. A future where their kids are grown and can look after themselves. Because then they won't have to worry about their children falling anymore, they won't have to watch them burst.

Mi tío's snarling sniff reminds me of what I was doing, or rather where I am.

Aqui Descansa

FAUSTINA FRANCO

July 6th 1978 - July 6th 2008

Una Alma Perdida

It's hard to read mi mamá's name through the rain. The downpour continues and I can't see the single drops anymore, they become blurred and look heavy as they fall on her grave.

Mamá never had to worry about me falling though, she didn't have to wonder about the future, because she could see it. She could hold it in her hands, feel it change within her fingers. She could respect it with her palms cupped around her ears, and with her eyes rolled back while her soul hummed. And sometimes she would gasp, rotate her eyes back and run to check on whosoever future was blindingly bright.

She didn't use a crystal ball, or mix spices. She didn't need to read cards. She just looked in her mirror. "I can see mi dios querido, but hear el diablo making his plans", she explained.

The mirror itself was given to her by her mamá, and her mamá's abuela and so on. It was big enough to fill up our dresser, but short enough that it didn't touch the ceiling in our small apartment. It was outlined in gold, actual gold! And the glass never got a stain or a smudge on it. And the gold never chipped or turned green. It was perfect in every way. Except for the crack that zig-zagged across the bottom, like someone tried to cut the glass off the frame. Mamá tried not to look at it. She said that's where el diablo whispers all the bad things. All the things that she wasn't suppose to see but would appear in her mind; what el dios tried to shield her sight from.

"La Brujería. . .", whispered the older men and women. "Magía", declared others. "¡Está Loca!", yelled the rest.

Was it bad? Was it magic? I will never know. But that would not stop the neighbors whispers or their insults. She hated all those names, but especially hated it when they called her thief. Because she "took" the sight. But mi mamá didn't steal it. It was given to her, that's what she told me.

But then there were days where even I couldn't tell if she stole it or not. Days where the teenage girls would come in, smacking their chicle between their silver teeth; asking and pleading with mi mamá to know what was beyond the mirror. And she would tell the teenage girls, the dying parents, the desperate cousins. I never understood why she bothered looking if she feared the mirror so much.

"Thief, what is it that you own?", the angry ones would say, "A blank space filled with voids?" Or sometimes they'd ask, "How much longer until you feel safe, thief?" Or if they were waiting for a turn but never got one, "Will you trifle further into an open plain until it caves?"

I was always confused, because no matter how scared or angry these people were, they always came back wanting to know what mi mamá had seen. And at night she would cry and hold me and make me promise to never look in between the zigzags of the mirror. She made me swear to run if the whispers started casting shadows my way. But when the shadows came, everything really did cave.

"There aren't any gods or goddesses anymore", the mirror whispered to me the same day mama died. "Besides the ones on the t.v, of course." And I could feel it coming closer as it whispered in my ear, "And what are little girls like you without gods?"

"The only gods you have are a cat and mouse." Pictures of my favorite show flashed in my mind from our television set that sat on the floor next to our dresser, beneath the mirror.

(Mamá went down to the store to get milk that day, and I sat in front of the mirror begging it to show me something. I started to pray to a God, anything, just as long as it talked).

The cartoons switched and instead I was watching myself standing in all black. I felt the cool breeze and time snap into place around me. I lifted my hands and ran them through the air. I could feel the mist, the liquid of rigged round droplets sprinkle within my palm and start to make strange patterns. Everything was wet- like the moisture in my eyelids as they carefully slid together. Like the terror bubbling up on the tip of my tongue. Like the hoods of everyone around me looking up, but that's not right. . .

And then I saw it, a name on a stone that will eventually crumble. I saw my own world fall as the letters strung out in front of me formed and started to make sense. 'F-A-U-S-T-I-N-A F-R-A-N-C-O'. As soon I opened my mouth to scream, everything disappeared: the people, the rain, the words.

I jumped up as I heard tires squeal and the horrified cries of the world outside the apartment. I looked out the window. I saw a trail of white mixing with red spilled along the pavement, running along the cracks as they zigzagged down the street. I saw hands hanging helplessly from a body. The same hands that would hold my own and brush away my tears. The very ones that covered its own ears in sadness, but then traced the edges of the cracks of the mirror hopelessly and smugly. I saw what could happen when the future was stolen. I was the thief.

That night the mirror shattered, as it whispered a blessing (or a curse) with the parting words, "Una alma perdida".

The rain starts to slow down as the last bit of dirt is thrown on her grave. Everyone leaves. My tío waits in the car while I say goodbye alone. I look around to make sure no one is left, and take a shard of glass from the broken mirror out of my pocket and place it on top of the mounds of dirt. I visit everyday to see if the shard talks again, it doesn't. But I go back each week, each year and listen. I listen for anything and everything just to see if she's there. I go until I can't see the shard anymore.

And even after that, all I can ever think about is that question from my childhood: Are there any gods or goddesses anymore? I don't think so, not with thieves like me running around claiming an infinity we can never hope to capture. But maybe we're all just lost and have to steal quick glances at the future. Maybe even you could have seen what was reflected in the mirror. It could have just been nothing, or perhaps what you feared the most.