Part II of my Christmas Story:
UNA POSADA PARA MONA
Copyright©2015 by Rebecca Moll, All Rights Reserved
Part II
The next week passed pretty much the same. Mona went to school, holding her breath until the doors closed on the bus and she could walk up the hill to Freddie's Flea Market. The boxes were still piled in the sunroom and bedrooms. Unopened boxes were now coffee tables and nightstands. Her shift switched to nights, Mona only saw her mother a few fleeting moments before school. Resting her feet on the third of three kitchen chairs, she had little say after long hours at the hospital.
Dropping her backpack inside the back door, quiet not to wake her sleeping mother, Mona grabbed a ratty t-shirt and changed into old sneakers. Pulling her hat from her backpack, she stuffed her ponytail out sight. Mona was a quick study. Put the iPhone away, hide the Beats, wear old clothes. And for God's sake, hide the hair. Something about blonde hair said money and money meant paying too much. Left over from their life in Colorado, the few trappings she had that showed privilege were already dated, out of style. Back home, she'd be out of sync with her peers, here she was the rico gringa. Catcalled through the halls, Mona pulled her hat down over her eyes and, hurried to class. Boys oozing with Mexican charm leaning lazily against lockers, rubbed their thumb against their fingers and other places, singing "rico gringa, wanna be my Momma?" over and over until she thought her skin would crawl and fall off.
Cresting the hill, she spotted the friendly Mexican woman in front of the church. There were others there too, a pile of wood, some lighting, and a few hand tools. Mona looked up at the steeple, their voices a repeating refrain of Spanish.
"Hola, Señorita," the woman called. Mona dropped her gaze and met the woman's smile.
"B-u-e-n-o-s D-í-a-s?" Mona said softly.
The woman clapped her hands together and then opened her arms, waving her over. Mona took a few steps closer and asked what they were doing. Bundles of straw were being unloaded. Two young men, their bronze chests gleaming in the sunlight, taunt muscles too much for the task, looked in her direction and smiled. Mona was happy she remembered the hat.
"No hablo Inglés," the kind woman apologized, her smile fading.
Mona pointed to the men working before them. "Christmas?"
"Sí, Feliz Navidad." Looking up at the sky, the woman paused a moment, her hand on her hips, feet planted wide. Returning her gaze to meet Mona's, she pointed to the small frame being built and ventured, "Natividad."
"Oh," Mona cheered, "Nativity, like the baby Jesus!"
"Sí, niño Je-sús."
A few moments passed and Mona felt her smile awkward, her presence overstayed. The frame was finished, a few shepherds placed inside, a donkey, cattle, and sheep stood upright. The young men were tossing straw on the ground and filling the manger, their backs turned to her.
"What about Mary, Joseph, and the baby Jesus?" Mona asked.
"La Familia? No aquí," she said pointing to the stable, "Ahí." and pointed to a shed at the rear of the church.
Mona thought about what she said and it made sense. After all, it was only the second week of December. Trying to remember the story, she thought of past Christmas cards left strewn on the kitchen table, a picture of Mary on a donkey, pregnant, loyal Joseph leading them through the desert, a bright star in the sky. She thought about their long journey. How hard it must have been. The waiting, for a baby, for a home. Her mother came to mind, so proud their Christmas cards were mailed before Thanksgiving, always rushing to be first. Always missing the journey.
Last year, still in Colorado, she found her mother writing Christmas cards in the early morning hours, her faced caked with dried tears, hair a mess. The familiar old red and green basket with pens, stamps, and blank cards held its place in the middle of the table.
"Mom, what are you doing?" Mona asked, eyes wide.
Looking up, her Mother forcing a smile, she gently said, "Sit down, Mona."
Mona wished she never sat down. That's when she found out about her father's illness. That it was terminal and that she and her mom may have it too. A lifetime of testing and worry, her mother said. Blood tests, every six months. Mona looked towards her parents’ bedroom. He's gone, it's over, her mother said, incredulously sounding relieved. Mona didn't understand. What was over? Her father? Her Parents? His life? Their life?
Over the next few months, divorce proceedings and custody investigations, Mona saw her father a few times. He moved to Las Vegas with a friend. Always showing up with a smile, they pretended nothing was wrong. No one was angry, her mother didn't cry herself to sleep, a realtor wasn't calling with information, he didn't buy last minute airport gifts, and wasn't all but gone from her life. Thinking she was asleep, they fought. Hard words, spitting out in hushed tones, in the dim light of the kitchen stove. Divorcing a dying man, he taunted. Divorcing a lying man, she corrected, slamming the door behind him. Now that they moved, Mona saw even less of her father. There was no call this week and Mona's mother was angry. Why can't he pick up the phone, she ranted. Mona wondered if he could pick up a phone.
Bringing her thoughts back to the woman before her, the church and the stable, Mona stretched out her hand in greeting, "Mona."
"Carmelita," the woman said with a broad smile, her head bobbing up and down. "La Posada," the woman said, pointing to a large sign in front of the church and back to Mona.
Mona walked over and read the sign. Although in Spanish, she could decipher enough from a few weeks worth of listening and the pictures depicted, to see it was a celebration, a procession of some kind. It was to be held on December 24th at 10 pm, the last of the nine nights of Posadas. From December 16th to the 24th, they celebrated the birth of Jesus. Mona thought about the Mexican people. Nine nights was a long time, but somehow it seemed to fit. Everything they did was big, tons of food, loud music, so many people; but even so, Mona had a feeling it was more than just family fun. Nine nights of Posadas, nine months of pregnancy, Mona felt a complexity to this culture that ran deep and wide, an intangible grounding, a faith.
Looking back, she saw she was alone. The manger stood empty, surrounded by the few onlookers put in place. Glancing at her watch, Mona was startled at the time. Hurrying up the hill, she thought about the empty stable and the missing family. Unlike them, she didn't have until Christmas. Mona knew what she had to do and it would take everything she had to pull it off.
Next week...Part III
Copyright©2015 by Rebecca Moll, All Rights Reserved
Part II
The next week passed pretty much the same. Mona went to school, holding her breath until the doors closed on the bus and she could walk up the hill to Freddie's Flea Market. The boxes were still piled in the sunroom and bedrooms. Unopened boxes were now coffee tables and nightstands. Her shift switched to nights, Mona only saw her mother a few fleeting moments before school. Resting her feet on the third of three kitchen chairs, she had little say after long hours at the hospital.
Dropping her backpack inside the back door, quiet not to wake her sleeping mother, Mona grabbed a ratty t-shirt and changed into old sneakers. Pulling her hat from her backpack, she stuffed her ponytail out sight. Mona was a quick study. Put the iPhone away, hide the Beats, wear old clothes. And for God's sake, hide the hair. Something about blonde hair said money and money meant paying too much. Left over from their life in Colorado, the few trappings she had that showed privilege were already dated, out of style. Back home, she'd be out of sync with her peers, here she was the rico gringa. Catcalled through the halls, Mona pulled her hat down over her eyes and, hurried to class. Boys oozing with Mexican charm leaning lazily against lockers, rubbed their thumb against their fingers and other places, singing "rico gringa, wanna be my Momma?" over and over until she thought her skin would crawl and fall off.
Cresting the hill, she spotted the friendly Mexican woman in front of the church. There were others there too, a pile of wood, some lighting, and a few hand tools. Mona looked up at the steeple, their voices a repeating refrain of Spanish.
"Hola, Señorita," the woman called. Mona dropped her gaze and met the woman's smile.
"B-u-e-n-o-s D-í-a-s?" Mona said softly.
The woman clapped her hands together and then opened her arms, waving her over. Mona took a few steps closer and asked what they were doing. Bundles of straw were being unloaded. Two young men, their bronze chests gleaming in the sunlight, taunt muscles too much for the task, looked in her direction and smiled. Mona was happy she remembered the hat.
"No hablo Inglés," the kind woman apologized, her smile fading.
Mona pointed to the men working before them. "Christmas?"
"Sí, Feliz Navidad." Looking up at the sky, the woman paused a moment, her hand on her hips, feet planted wide. Returning her gaze to meet Mona's, she pointed to the small frame being built and ventured, "Natividad."
"Oh," Mona cheered, "Nativity, like the baby Jesus!"
"Sí, niño Je-sús."
A few moments passed and Mona felt her smile awkward, her presence overstayed. The frame was finished, a few shepherds placed inside, a donkey, cattle, and sheep stood upright. The young men were tossing straw on the ground and filling the manger, their backs turned to her.
"What about Mary, Joseph, and the baby Jesus?" Mona asked.
"La Familia? No aquí," she said pointing to the stable, "Ahí." and pointed to a shed at the rear of the church.
Mona thought about what she said and it made sense. After all, it was only the second week of December. Trying to remember the story, she thought of past Christmas cards left strewn on the kitchen table, a picture of Mary on a donkey, pregnant, loyal Joseph leading them through the desert, a bright star in the sky. She thought about their long journey. How hard it must have been. The waiting, for a baby, for a home. Her mother came to mind, so proud their Christmas cards were mailed before Thanksgiving, always rushing to be first. Always missing the journey.
Last year, still in Colorado, she found her mother writing Christmas cards in the early morning hours, her faced caked with dried tears, hair a mess. The familiar old red and green basket with pens, stamps, and blank cards held its place in the middle of the table.
"Mom, what are you doing?" Mona asked, eyes wide.
Looking up, her Mother forcing a smile, she gently said, "Sit down, Mona."
Mona wished she never sat down. That's when she found out about her father's illness. That it was terminal and that she and her mom may have it too. A lifetime of testing and worry, her mother said. Blood tests, every six months. Mona looked towards her parents’ bedroom. He's gone, it's over, her mother said, incredulously sounding relieved. Mona didn't understand. What was over? Her father? Her Parents? His life? Their life?
Over the next few months, divorce proceedings and custody investigations, Mona saw her father a few times. He moved to Las Vegas with a friend. Always showing up with a smile, they pretended nothing was wrong. No one was angry, her mother didn't cry herself to sleep, a realtor wasn't calling with information, he didn't buy last minute airport gifts, and wasn't all but gone from her life. Thinking she was asleep, they fought. Hard words, spitting out in hushed tones, in the dim light of the kitchen stove. Divorcing a dying man, he taunted. Divorcing a lying man, she corrected, slamming the door behind him. Now that they moved, Mona saw even less of her father. There was no call this week and Mona's mother was angry. Why can't he pick up the phone, she ranted. Mona wondered if he could pick up a phone.
Bringing her thoughts back to the woman before her, the church and the stable, Mona stretched out her hand in greeting, "Mona."
"Carmelita," the woman said with a broad smile, her head bobbing up and down. "La Posada," the woman said, pointing to a large sign in front of the church and back to Mona.
Mona walked over and read the sign. Although in Spanish, she could decipher enough from a few weeks worth of listening and the pictures depicted, to see it was a celebration, a procession of some kind. It was to be held on December 24th at 10 pm, the last of the nine nights of Posadas. From December 16th to the 24th, they celebrated the birth of Jesus. Mona thought about the Mexican people. Nine nights was a long time, but somehow it seemed to fit. Everything they did was big, tons of food, loud music, so many people; but even so, Mona had a feeling it was more than just family fun. Nine nights of Posadas, nine months of pregnancy, Mona felt a complexity to this culture that ran deep and wide, an intangible grounding, a faith.
Looking back, she saw she was alone. The manger stood empty, surrounded by the few onlookers put in place. Glancing at her watch, Mona was startled at the time. Hurrying up the hill, she thought about the empty stable and the missing family. Unlike them, she didn't have until Christmas. Mona knew what she had to do and it would take everything she had to pull it off.
Next week...Part III
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