Thirty-two

In years to come, Ramon would tell it often to the children of Guajolote: how the gold Sister Petra had prayed for appeared in the coals of that high mountain campfire in the country of the Snowy Cross. And the children’s parents and grandparents would tell them it was true, for they had been there the day Ramon returned to Guajolote with the gold coins, back when he was just a boy.

“Why Guajolote?” the incredulous young ones would ask, crowding around the good father in the shade of a cottonwood that grew between the two arms of the Ojo de los Brazos. “Why would God want to save this village?”

“¿Quien sabe?” Ramon would tell them, shrugging his shoulders. “One never knows. Perhaps in a thousand years, this place will amount to something.” He would laugh and stroke his fingers through the black hair of one of the children. “That is God’s business.”

“Padre Ramon, tell us about Sister Petra.”

His heart would throb and he would reply: “What do you want to know about her?”

“What did she look like?”

“Ay, muchachos,” he would say, turning his palms to the brilliant New Mexican skies, his eyes sparkling like an ax against a grindstone. “She was the most beautiful woman you ever did see.”