Jar of Glass: Words Collected by Tamara Lopez

October is a cold month here in the valley between volcanoes. The vicious bite of winter teases my nose and whips me with the threat of icicles. It is a month that forces the darkness of death on my complacent mindset. Even if death is not present, it will emerge, and the things that were dying, will come to their ends in this month. October is a shitty month, and it is all right to say it. Too often people sugar coat what is innately terrible. Even the act of putting on masks and pretending is a deceitful act, and we make light of it because it is the only time of year that people can really admit that they are not what they seem. Every other day of the year, they have to hide that they are hiding. October is a freezing month in the clamor of silence. The sounds that were new just a couple months ago repeat themselves, and the cycle of silenced voices, limp hugs, hard eyes, ice pick refusals ring absently in the rustle of the fall leaves.      I try despera...

Pebble in the Sun I hold you up to the sun.        Your dirt creased hands--        Your solid mass of cracking stone        that I heave away rock by rock in my heart.        Your infinitely gentle " mijita "        and weary legs crossing the desert--        The methodic hands pulling up roots.        The hanging head, sun-baked shoulders         that rise in raspy laughter. I tilt you to the light.         The long ago child who escaped la llorona          to drown in other rivers along the way. I dangle you in the candle light.         Wailing women          piercing a sable night.          Relentless, angry notes and          broken corridos played on the E string....

The Pack Rat The pack rat constructs a nest around it. Debris is its shelter: all its journeys out into the wild all the odds and ends-- Burying itself in those past moments.      the time it saw the snow-covered peaks      the time it hid from stomping feet      the time food was abundant      the time water was life      the time water was death. We see its massive structure-- and admire its conspicuous life and achievement, never seeing the pack rat nestled in formulated debris. I will strip away the spoons and shiny metal so you can see a reflection of me. You will take the image back to patch your retreat.

After an exhausting day in Boston, Joaquin and I departed from Plymouth, but not before, we made a visit to Plimouth Plantation. Plimouth Plantation is a re-created historical settlement with actors playing the parts  of Native Americans and pilgrims. Joaquin and I arrived early when there were no crowds, so it felt like a nice, nature walk through time. I even saw a cardinal, which to me topped the experience because I had only seen the vibrant rouge delight in books. Something else that very closely topped the experience was watching Joaquin help the pilgrim girl fetch water down by the creek. He was loaded up with a yoke and had to balance two buckets of water at each end. It was an idyllic scene with a bunny rabbit hopping away from the creek as we approached, and my little boy slaving away (much to my entertainment). Some people may be under the impression that I am a nice person, but I do not know after considering how much pleasure I gained from watching my progeny struggle...