Names Above Houses

With the Grace of Basket Weavers

77 With the Grace of Basket Weavers Fidelito makes halos by soaking bundles of sticks in water for hours. That is the first thing. They must bend without breaking. He tests one to see whether it will snap when he applies steady pressure. He knows the time. Taking three sticks, he weaves them in and out as he would the hair of his mother. Forming a ring, he ties the ends as they meet with string. But that’s not the last thing. Fidelito must make it his own, this loop he will wear about his head. He looks for anything: discarded shirts with the crust of sea salt from his father—he tears them into strips. He cuts the straps off the dress his mother wears when she is most beautiful. Loose feathers and dry flowers that after being dead for months stay pink; these are gathered from the yard. Now he threads these into the spaces between sticks. Only then can he wear this hat to church or school. Grace is found in the early hours. For the aura, he parades through streets with his palms upturned to the sky. Inhales. Exhales. The head arched back so far the ground disappears, and the name, in meditation, opens in cold air like a parachute. ...