The Toltec Art of Life and Death. Barbara Emrys

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      Sarita was tired. She had been listening to the speeches of a dozen or more student activists on the university campus. Miguel had been the second to last to speak, and he was something to see, rallying the crowd to this cause and that one; but she was tired now, and unsure how all this would help her get him back. She removed one of her slippers and gently rubbed a swollen foot. It would be a long night, she knew, but it could not last forever. Her grandchildren would be asleep by now, their parents still drumming by candlelight, still watching Mother Sarita as she held the trance and continued her peculiar journey. This was hard for them, too.

      “I know he was a good speaker in college, Lala” she commented to the woman guiding this expedition, “but this is not such a special day in his life . . . nor would my son count it as memorable.”

      Sarita fidgeted, feeling uncomfortable within these surroundings, as she was reminded of things she had long forgotten. Escaping the night massacre of Tlatelolco—that was memorable, she thought to herself. Miguel and his brothers, students at the Autónoma Nacional University in Mexico City, had traveled home that week and so, thankfully, were not in the Tlatelolco neighborhood when the military opened fire on thousands of students and bystanders during a peaceful rally against government policies. The killing had continued into the night, ending in the tragic loss of many of her sons’ close friends and professors. Yes, it was important to remember the young and vital ones who had been killed, whose promise would never be fulfilled; and it was important to be grateful for the lives of those who had avoided the massacre’s horror. That was not the only time death had spurned her youngest son. No, he and death would face each other and depart as cautious friends many more times.

      “Indeed, he was so young,” Lala agreed, “but you see how persuasive he could be, even in his first year at medical school. He had a way with the spoken word. He had charisma. He brought his fellow students together, as we see. With such a forceful personality, he could have influenced a nation.”

      Sarita nodded, remembering how intensely her son had been courted by government officials in those days. His brother Carlos had advised him on the dangers of politics, and Miguel had been quick to understand how recruitment into that kind of life would compromise his personal freedom.

      “I must find don Leonardo again,” the old woman sighed, massaging the other foot. “He will know what is important to this quest.”

      “Men know about men, I suppose,” the redhead muttered. “There’s a good chance he’s observing couples in bed.”

      “Is it time for that again?” Sarita exclaimed. It seemed that young men were unduly proud of their lovemaking, as if they thought they had invented the thing. She pictured Miguel as he’d been then, so young and so amorous. She thought of Maria, his wife, and their beautiful sons. Of course, sex came with great rewards—physical joy and the pleasures of parenthood. Nothing touches us more than marriage, more than birth . . . more than death.

      Sarita lifted her head, slipper in hand. “Death,” she said, turning pale. Looking away from the park, from the people, she saw something that had escaped her notice until then. In the distance, a young man was driving a junker of a car, weaving slowly through the crowd of students as if looking for someone.

      “Memín,” she whispered, her mind reeling with the memory of another son . . . and then she fainted.