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distrusted one another. Nobody knew whom they could trust.
    All during this time, Mamí grew worse, vomiting and complaining of stomach cramps. Our cantón’s healer, the
curandero
, came many times, costing Papí much money, but the herbs did nothing to lessen Mamí’s pain and her sweating. I still attended school each day, keeping far from the open roads. Each night I slept near the door of our home so I could escape to the forest with the young men if the soldiers arrived. Always I worried that someone might tell the soldiers that I spoke Spanish. Living with this constant fear made my own stomach knot up and hurt at night.
    For me, knowing Spanish became a dark and frightening secret, but the gift Manuel had given me was not a gift that I wished to abandon. Each night I lay awake on my sleeping mat, and in the darkness of the night I defiantly mouthed forbidden Spanish words.
    By month’s end, the military had changed their tactics yet again. In some cantóns, villagers had begun fighting back with their machetes, mounting small-scale ambushes on soldiers when they walked along the mountain trails. To combat this, the military declared it illegal to own a machete, and they came to collect every machete they could find. “Anybody caught with a machete will be considered an enemy,” they announced.
    Many men, like Papí, hid their machetes in plastic bags in the ground, but this left us defenseless, not only against the soldiers but also against snakes, wild dogs, and angry bulls. Even worse, now we had to work breaking corn stalks in the field with only our bare hands, a chore that left our skin cut and raw. Many nights the younger children cried themselves to sleep. Without machetes, we were like a bunch of sheep surroundedby mad dogs.
    We celebrated little at Christmas, but we all hoped that the New Year might bring relief from war and fear. We prayed that Mamí might recover, and we prayed for Jorge’s return.
    But Jorge didn’t return, and Mamí failed to improve. At first we had hoped her illness was caused only by bad water, but soon it pained her to move and she grew so weak that even standing became a struggle. Coughing and diarrhea consumed her body and took away more than her strength. Soon Mamí became so thin that her cheeks, once round and soft to the touch, grew gaunt and pale. Her shiny black hair became dull and stringy. Each night she tossed restlessly on her sleeping mat, sweat beading on her forehead as if the sun had burned her.
    The curandero kept trying new cures, but nothing helped, so on an overcast day in March, Papí called all of us together. “Your mother is dying,” he said quietly. “I want each of you to spend a short time with her alone.”
    I gathered my younger brothers and sisters and westood outside our home, each waiting quietly for our turn. Lidia and Julia wept. I felt scared. When my turn came, I leaned close over Mamí and whispered, “Go someplace without soldiers or war, Mamí. Go someplace where the flowers bloom brightly and where the roosters crow quietly. Go and rest in peace, sweet Mamí. We’ll never forget you.”
    Mamí opened her eyes and smiled with thin, cracked lips. I leaned over and kissed her cheek, then I fled before she saw my tears.
    Mamí clung to life as each of us visited her side. Papí visited her last and stayed with her for a long time. When he came outside, his red eyes and face were wrought with anguish. “Your Mamí has died,” he whispered.
    At that moment, all of us wept and the heavens cried with raindrops.
    In the afternoon, neighbors brought our family small gifts, and I helped dress Mamí in her best corte and huipil. Papí built a small wooden coffin alone in the forest. I could only imagine the cruel silence that must have surrounded him as he worked. When all wasready, we laid Mamí in the coffin and rested her on the table in our small home.
    Manuel came from the school when he heard of Mamí’s death. He was there when all of