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191 Creosote and lavender grow in my garden. I planted the lavender when my mother died. The creosote bush has been here since the Original People walked this desert and smelled her perfume after the rain. It is an ancient memory and this morning as I water my grandson’s squash plant, I smell the rains he will know and I remember. My first memory is the sound of a woman sobbing, wailing muffled llantos al cielo. I recognize the origin of that canto when I make those same sounds walking in a sandy arroyo looking for solace and reason: looking for my child lost in a silent hemorrhage. I feel alone but I know that I am not. Other women have walked this way before me. I follow their footsteps and cry for help. Llorona, ayudame. Heavy drops of rain fall from the dark sky crying for me y me desahogo and I am calm. The smell of creosote nourishes me and connects me to this desert of my birth and birthing and to my mother, Socorro Casanova Veliz. She met my father in Copper Creek, a mining camp high in the Galurio Mountains. They married and moved to El Tigre, a village of red hills where they had two daughters, Marta Elena and Norma Gloria. My father wanted a son but my mother was happy with two daughters. There was a miscarriage, then another, and finally twin males stillborn just one year before my birth. My mother grieved the ten lunar months of my gestation. This time she would not birth at home. In fact it appeared she might not birth at all. Two weeks past her time, and still she had no signs of my birth. So the company doctor made her go to Saint Mary’s Hospital in Tucson. Fifty-five years later, before she died, she gave me the white pearl rosary she held in her hand praying in the Creosote and Lavender Angelita Borbón 192 · Angelita Borbón car all the way into town. Praying in the room while they got her ready. Praying that she would not get sick if she ate the hospital food they gave her for dinner. Praying to the ancient ones still there in the shadows of Tumamoc Hill. I was born an hour later. Another girl. After I was born my mother became very quiet. Most mornings she would sit at the kitchen table drinking coffee and staring out the window at the road on the hill. Every once in a while someone would walk by. I liked the view out the back door better. There was a giant saguaro with two big arms. He was my friend. My other friends were Rusty the dog who was half coyote, Pokey the tortoise who only showed up when he wanted to, and the noisy ravens on top of the neighbors’ roof. Rusty got rabies, so my dad had to shoot him. I stood on the kitchen table and looked out my mother’s window. She tried to stop me from watching but my screaming was so loud that she had to let go of me and cover her ears. She left the room. I saw it all and when my dad entered the kitchen I could smell his rifle. He explained what would have happened if Rusty had bitten someone . He was protecting us by killing Rusty, he said. He was protecting the health of the People. I did not cry. I dug a hole in the front yard with my father’s pick and shovel and filled it with water. I put rocks around the edges and little branches of creosote in the water. Then I took off my clothes except for my calzones and got in the big puddle I had made. I extended my legs out straight and put my belly on the bottom. I kept my head up by leaning on my elbows. I called Pokey with my mind and I waited. I did this for days and finally on the day before my fifth birthday the tortoise finally came into our yard. He stayed a long time and was good company for me. My mother’s older sister, Hortensia Dunn, came to visit during this time. She thought El Tigre should build a swimming pool like the ones in Los Angeles, so that I would not have to swim in a puddle. I had heard my older sisters saying Tia Tencha lived in...

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