MasukWe call her Saturday morning.Elena sits at the kitchen table with the box open in front of her and her phone in her hands and the specific quality of a mother who has to tell her child something that is going to change how the child sees herself.I take a sit across from her.Dominic has taken Lucia to the park so the apartment can hold this conversation properly.The phone rings twice.Paz answers with the energy of someone who has been up for hours doing something purposeful. I can hear the New Mexico morning in her voice. The wide sky of it."Mami," she says. "I'm literally at Mira Seca right now, the county inspector came early and we did a full survey of the foundation perimeter and there's more structural integrity than we thought, which means we can....""Paz," Elena interrupted .She stops.She has known her mother long enough to read a single word."What is it?" she says."Are you sitting down?" Elena says.A pause. "I'm sitting on a foundation stone," she says. "Is that sym
I call Pren.He answers in two rings."What kind of records?" I say."I don't have the full picture yet," he says. "The Rome Conclave operates differently from Edinburgh or Chicago. They have a formal archivist, a position that has existed since the fifteenth century, and she contacted me directly yesterday." He pauses. "Her name is Sister Benedetta. She's been the archivist for thirty-one years.""A nun?" I say."The Rome Conclave has always had a relationship with certain religious orders," he says. "It's a complicated history that goes back centuries. Sister Benedetta was appointed archivist because she has the specific ability to read what's in the archive accurately." He pauses. "Her words, not mine."I look at Dominic across the table.He is listening."She has the ability," I say."She said, specifically, that she has been waiting for the founding line to become visible," Pren says. "That the Chicago session was the signal she was waiting for." He pauses. "She says the records
I call her immediately.She answers before the first ring finishes, which means she was holding the phone, which means she has been sitting with whatever is in that box and waiting for me to call and probably unable to do anything else in the interim."Tell me," I say."I can't do this on the phone," she says. "I need to show you.""You said you're coming next month," I say."I'm coming next week," she says. "I changed the flight when I found it.""What is it, Elena?"A pause.Like she's deciding how much to give over the phone versus in person."It's from your mother," she says.I go completely still."The box was my mother's," she says. "She gave it to me before she died. She told me to keep it until someone asked for it. She said I'd know when." A pause. "I never opened it because I thought I was the wrong someone. I thought there was a specific person it was meant for and I wasn't them.""Me," I say."I think so," she says. "Yes.""What made you open it now?" I say."Lucia saying
August.Lucia is six months old and the fourth word arrives on a Wednesday.Not dramatically. She is in the bouncy seat in the kitchen watching me make breakfast while slowly sulking on her milk bottle. She says it twice with the certainty of someone who has been working toward something and has decided today is the day. "More." I heard her say and I became still for just a nanosecond. I thought I might have misheard. It's just some more of her intelligible words.NI turn from the stove and looked at her with a smile She looks back at me."More." She repeated throwing a fit with her milk bottle in hand while sucking on a thumb. My eyebrows shot up in surprise. How did she know just the right wordI look at her for a moment and my smile widened as I approached her.Then I say: "More of what?"She makes the sound that means she approves of the question.I crouch to her level, taking aside a strand of her that seem to be stuck from sweat just so close to her eyes."More of this?" I say
July arrives with the warmth and chill of a Chicago July that doesn't apologize for itself. The city at its most itself, outdoor everything and the lake and people moving through the heat with the determined enjoyment of people who endured five months of cold and are going to make the most of every degree above seventy.Lucia is five months old and she finally has the third word now.It arrived on a Tuesday morning and it was, as Dominic predicted, something she decided mattered."Li."Her version of her name.The first time she said it I was at the kitchen window watering the herbs and she said it from the bouncy seat with the specific satisfaction of someone who has been working toward something and has arrived.I turned around.She looked at me."Li."I looked at her for a moment.Then I said: "Yes. That's you."She said it again bouncing on the seat in joy. Smiling so wide I could see her toothless gum."Li."Three times. How establishing.Dominic came in from the hallway and she
We fly home from Albuquerque on a Sunday.The flight is two hours and Lucia sleeps most of it the way she slept the last time, in the complete committed way of someone who has decided rest is worth taking seriously. Dominic is reading, I don't know what it's about thought. I look out the window.The three days of the council meeting settle into me on the flight home the way significant things settle. Not dramatically. As weight that becomes familiar. The kind you carry differently after it's been named.Twenty-two people in a room, the structure decided, the gathering place confirmed.The morning before we left I walked to the Mira Seca foundations one more time. Alone, at six a.m., while the others were still at the hotel and Dominic had Lucia and the June morning was doing the specific thing with light that makes New Mexico look like it was lit deliberately.I stood at the foundations and looked at the plants.At the stones, then at the flowers Elena leaves. I thought about what Ros







