A Head

My father scolded me harshly for playing at eastern corner of our residence on a cloudy Spring afternoon when I was about six. He had planned to create a garden there and had spent the earlier weekends tilling the soil.

My mother had explained to me that it was an escape from his grueling and psychologically draining work as a homicide detective in the Mexico City of the early 1980s.

From the window of my bedroom or from the shifting angles of my swing I watched his sweaty back, sun burnt shoulders and thick legs work in unison to plunge the shovel into the dirt and heave mounds of dirt that crumbled apart when they reached a few inches off the ground. It awed me that he could work 4 or 5 hours at a time with only a few lemonade breaks or an occasional beer that my mother would bring with a hearty refried bean, chile, avocado and ham torta.

Perhaps it was an act of rebellion that I decided to play in the island of loose dirt that he had worked so hard on. It had been one of my favorite spots of the yard to play in and I had been annoyed when he announced and described the planned garden to friends during our family’s yearly New Year’s Eve party. For a while I thought he had forgotten but then in early March he cordoned off the area with sticks and string and the special place was off limits for my baby sister and I.

When he spotted me that Sunday, I was doing cartwheels in the dirt. It was fun to feel my hands dig into the soil and I loved its coolness and how it dirtied my fingernails. His yell was powerful even from a distance and I grew cold when I heard it. By the time he reached me I was prepared for the worst but surprisingly he shooed me away gently with a warning not to do it again. This was a welcomed break and I resolved right there to comply.

The fever began early the next day. At first it meant taking one day off from school but when the stomach pains and severe headache sprung upon me my parents became alarmed. It had been about a week and no aspirin, tea or simple treatment helped. I was taken to a pediatrician who ran a few tests but failed to identify the problem. I was sent home while they studied further and it was then that I lost my appetite and for the next two weeks I began to loose weight rapidly.

Day after day my condition worsened and I felt terrible for causing my parents pain. My mother held her tears back as she placed countless moistened towels on my forehead. I saw a quiver at my father’s lip as he scoured my gaunt chest, thinning legs and ashen cheeks for clues or answers. I was slipping away slowly and there was nothing the they or doctors could do to stop it.

The weight of the situation drove my father to take a break and return to his work on the island of soil. A small tree he had planted early into the project was dying and he would take it out and replace it. As the shovel broke away the dirt and moved into the ground his foot felt the resistance of an object. It must have struck him odd as he had tilled this part and he was certain that no large rock or pipe layed beneath his feet. With curiosity he dug some more, pulled out the dying tree and in the whole he found a brown sack.

His fingers shook as he unfurled the burlap’s thick and stubborn knot. When it came undone a waft of stinking hot air moved up his nose. His surprise came in that he wasn’t surprised by the smell for he had encountered it before in his everyday work. It was the smell of decomposition and it belonged to the head of a large black cat.

My grandmother showed up later that evening and performed the ritual. She had been estranged from my parents for a few months and I had been surprised to see her. At my bed post she laid down a pack of cigarettes, a bowl, what seemed to a weed and a couple of eggs.

It hurt to cough as she blew cigarette smoke onto my face and I felt a chill tickle when she pressed the cool eggs about my naked body. The weed I saw smelled sweet and it soothed me as it brushed against my legs, feet and arms. I fell asleep some time during the event.

That night my parents burned the head, the blackened egg yolk and then prayed.

The next morning I awoke. The headache was gone, the fever had subsided and I asked my parents for a hearty breakfast.

A slab of concrete sits a top my father’s garden.

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