The Life of a Child

It was Thanksgiving.

And we all enjoyed the turkey from Whole Foods

And the medrillo cranberry substitute.

Then Flor ran into the house crying.

Humberto, her father and Don of the Pueblo, ran out with her.

Something terrible had happened.

A young child was found by his Italian father

In the tank near his garden of food.

For three hours they tried to blow the breath of life

back into his blue, chilled body.

Aremis was two.

We buried him three days later on a mountain side

over looking the great altiplano of Mexico.

There were Italians, Mexicans, Americans, Swiss, South Americans,

Germans, English, Huicholes, and other Indiginos.

We were writers, painters, farmers, fathers,jewelers, cafe owners,

shopkeepers, art directors,

hotel owners, production managers, mothers, store owners, stone masons,

photographers,

goaters, carpenters,

and travelers.

We were sisters and brothers.

And we were all Mourners.

The Huichole spoke with a clear, emotional resonance.

And the Earth turned the Sun to the rim of the mountain.

And we honored the Earth, and the Sky,

And the life of a child.