My mother comes from her shack
walking on tiptoes
until she reaches me
hand over mouth
to hide her shock.
Seeing me locked in the stocks
she whispers son, ay, mi hijo, my son
and it sounds like something mothers
in many places
far away
must have murmured
many times
long ago.
Then she tells me
Toribio is gone
my father
is dead.
Together we call to him
speaking to the air
not the ground
not a grave.