Read What the Moon Saw for Free Online Page B

hola!”
Hello hello hello!
    Abuelita, holding a big tortilla, stood underneath him. “This is Loro,” she said, “and Loro, this is Clara.”
    Abuelita showed me how to feed Loro bits of tortilla. He plucked the tortilla pieces from my hand, one by one, and I laughed at the way his beak tickled my palm.
    “Loro has been on this earth nearly as long as I have,” Abuelita said. She turned back to the fire to stir something in a clay pot with a long wooden spoon. Her bare feet seemed to merge with the packed-dirt floor beneath them, like aboveground tree roots.
    Suddenly, Loro shrieked.
“¡Ánimo! ¡Ánimo!”
he cried.
    I jumped, not only because it was so loud, but because that was what Dad would say to me when I felt upset. It meant something like “Cheer up” or “Have courage” or “Get your spark back.” Whenever I acted pouty or grumpy, rolling my eyes and stomping around, he’d grin and say, “
Ánimo,
my daughter!” and I’d roll my eyes even more, trying to hide my smile. Or, the times I felt truly sad, he’d smooth my hair lightly and whisper,
“Ánimo.”
It did cheer me up, but I never told him that.
    Again, Loro opened his beak and screeched,
“¡Ánimo, Silvia! ¡Ánimo, doña Carmen!”
    “Silvia? Doña Carmen?” I asked Abuelita. “Who are they?”
    Abuelo breezed into the kitchen. “Old friends of your grandmother’s,” he said, looking at her with a devilish grin. “Right,
mi vida
?”
    Abuelita raised her eyebrow.
    She motioned for us to sit on the wooden chairs, and began serving hot milk with cinnamon and chocolate, rich and foamy. I waited for her to explain, but all she said was “They were threads in the web of our lives.” Talking with Abuelita was like diving for pennies. She’d drop some words that flashed like coins. Maybe it was up to me to dive down to find them.
    She handed us thick tortillas folded in half, filled with orange squash flowers and melted cheese, cooked over the fire on a clay plate—a
comal.
Then she perched on a wooden chair, smaller than the ones Abuelo and I sat on—kind of a doll’s chair. She seemed comfortable with her legs drawn up under her and a tortilla balanced on her knees.
    I took a small bite, chewed cautiously. “Good,” I said, surprised.
    “Your father’s favorite food, squash flowers,” Abuelo said.
    I didn’t correct him. It might make him sad that now Dad’s favorite food was marshmallow brownies.
But is it possible,
I wondered,
that deep inside, Dad does like squash flowers best?
    Abuelita rested her hand on my shoulder for a moment. Her touch made me remember what had been nagging at the edges of my mind all day, even in dreams during my nap. “Abuelita. Before the bus wreck—why did you squeeze my hand?”
    She and Abuelo looked at each other.
    “Your father has told you about me, no?” she asked.
    “Well, a little.” I searched every cranny of my brain, trying to find a story, a quote, any piece of his past with Abuelita in it. When I was small, he used to sing songs from his village and tell me stories about the rabbit and the moon. He’d always make me speak Spanish with him—but we’d just talk about everyday things, like what time he had to pick me up from art class. He’d never given me details about his childhood or his mother or father. All I knew, really, were the bare bones of his life. Finally, I thought of our conversation the evening the letter had arrived. “He did say that you
know
things.”
    Abuelo set down his mug. “Know things,” he repeated proudly. The firelight glinted off his eyes. The green one looked translucent, like some kind of gemstone, and the brown one glistened like melting chocolate. “Your grandmother can see a whole world that the rest of us cannot.”
    Abuelita playfully poked his shoulder. “More hot chocolate, Clara?” she asked, standing up.
    I nodded, watching both of them. Suddenly, more than anything, I wanted to know what she knew.
    “Abuelita,” I said. I was