And I come bearing the same eyes with which she saw these things, because she gave me her eyes to see: “There, just beyond Los Colimotes pass, you’ll find a beautiful view of a green plain, with a bit of yellow from the ripening corn. From that spot you’ll see Comala, turning the land white, lighting it up at night.” And her voice was secretive, almost without sound, as if she were speaking to herself . . . My mother.
