Grandma,
gray in the afternoon,
by the kitchen,
evening cimmerian by the altar.
She talks
of 365 flutes,
of how the Hacendados
have forced us
to forget.
How our own
people have
asked to forget.
To forget
365 flutes
in memory
of our songs.
In memory,
of privileged daily
life.
She hands
me the knife
grandpa stop using
cause the blade
had been used down.
With copper hands
she shows
how to strip
the jade bamboo shaft,
peel away
yellow leaves and white saplings.
She says, "Cuarto de vara",
is how long
we should cut
the body of each flute.
Sometimes we
don't have a choice,
the natural segments
connect too short or long.
She holds
the tubular body,
talks about the relationship
between cylindrical width
and segmental hole
spacing.
I try
to put my
mechanical skills
to use
but still can't
compare to
her equinoctial
knife abilities.
She first
cuts the mouth hole,
cleans its, sands it.
Then she blows
on it, pours candle wax
into the hole.
Blows on it again.
Makes a thumb hole.
Checks and adjusts.
Finishes making the
additional holes.
I tried to finish mine,
but just can't
get all the notes to
quite fit right.
She plays
her flute
and I stop to listen.
Grandma
is the winds instrument
she plays
the songs inside me.
Tells me I will learn
to make fine flutes
and play all the songs
of our people.
In May, she takes
all the 365 flutes
and breaks them,
uses them as kindling,
for the fires.
She tells we break
the flutes not to forget
how to make them.
Not to forget
how to play our songs.
Not to forget.
By Tezozomoc 9/2/94