The statue looked uncannily like her mother. Its nose curved up, stout at the base and plump near the nostrils. Long straight hair fell below its waist; flowy, as if caught in the same wind that brushed against Roadside’s ears. If she squinted, a part of her was so sure that the statue would start singing—singing in the same husky, saccharine voice Roadside’s mother loved showing off at downtown bars.
“What the fuck.” Roadside stepped onto sandstone and set her flowers down on a couple of nearby rocks. She had brought sunflowers—her mother’s favorite—though, the bouquet felt less important now than it did an hour ago, where she spent nearly all morning waiting in line at the Shiprock supermarket.
Neither of Roadside’s siblings liked to visit their mother’s grave, so as the oldest, Roadside took the responsibility on herself, reigning it in like a wild horse. She’d wake at the break of dawn to greet their mother, hair tied back as the sun warmed her neck from behind. But the grave wasn’t much of a grave. There was no headstone, no plot of land. These sandstone fixtures were just where they had spread their mother’s ashes the year before, when Roadside and her siblings had no money to buy a plot of land in their small-town cemetery. But Roadside knew their mother wouldn’t care, perhaps she even preferred it this way. Down between the two-sister mesas where I was born singing, let the wind carry me.
So, at the young ages of seventeen, fourteen, and ten, Roadside and her two younger siblings threw their mother’s ashes into the sky. It was a bright day, devoid of clouds and shadows. Roadside felt heat press its hot palms against her forehead, causing sweat to build in tufts beneath her hair. The sun felt out of place, light sneaking between rocks and cacti, turning everything vivid. Roadside could barely keep her eyes open, squinting as her hand attempted to block the sun from her eyebrows. With a gentle heave, Roadside and her younger brother, Dylan, had managed to empty the cheap aluminum urn, kicking dirt with their shoes as they skidded back from the cliff’s edge. Together, they watched their mother’s ashes fall in a heavy sheet, trinkling like rainfall onto the red sandstone below.
That day, Turquoise, the youngest sibling, swore she’d heard their mother humming. A low echo, that seemed to turn the birds quiet. But Roadside only heard the soft roar of desert wind, turning over dry weeds and dirt. All three siblings stood side by side, hand in hand. Their breath mixed with the sound of cicadas singing in air nearby. The caws of lingering crows drew their attention upwards, towards the sky. They all wondered if those crows carried their mother’s soul, soaring above the ashes and into the sun.
When they returned home, Turquoise picked up their mother’s old guitar and practiced strumming chords. Roadside and Dylan watched from the kitchen table, where they prepared steamed corn stew for the night. With bare hands, Roadside turned over hot náneeskadí, before throwing it into a ceramic bowl. Dylan shaped the dough, forming rough circles with his palms, just like their mother taught him. For years, all three siblings used to complain about the lack of space in the house, how things felt cramped and two-sizes too small for their growing limbs. But that night, everything felt too big. Their mother’s empty dining room chair, empty blankets, empty living room couch, made the house feel like it was swallowing everyone and everything whole. For a while after their mother’s death, Roadside spent a lot of time alone in the living room, as Turquoise and Dylan spent multiple days and nights in their shared bedroom.
Early on, Roadside came to terms with the fact that she’ll never see their mother again. And there was a strange kind of coffee-lined sweetness to knowing that a part of Roadside had found acceptance so quickly. But now here she was, face-to-face with her dead mother.
As she stared at the statue, Roadside could hear branches scraping against sandstone, pushed and pulled by the wind. She looked around. Eyes running over red rock, looking for another person, or perhaps even another statue—just something to explain why there was a near perfect sandstone replica of her mother.
Roadside had only just started to bring flowers. The gesture felt half-hearted and painful, this was her fourth month of attempting to treat their mother’s death like it was something normal. A part of Roadside wondered, did someone make this and leave it behind for me? Roadside took a couple steps closer to the statue.
“What are you?”
“…”
Roadside kicked the statue’s feet softly, almost as if she expected it to cave with a single touch, to burst into smoke, or fall to the ground like wet rags. Instead, her foot was met with hard, solid rock.
“Jesus.” Roadside kicked it again for good measure. It didn’t do anything. She circled it, staying at arm’s length.
“Mom?” She picked up a nearby stick and threw it at the statue. It felt to the ground. A heavy gust of wind blew it behind the rocks.
The statue remained still. Roadside couldn’t take her eyes off it. Slowly, as if afraid the statue’s hands might reach out and grab her, Roadside took out her phone and snapped a picture. The statue looked ethereal in the blinding flash, surrounded by maroon and baby blue. In the photo, she thought the statue was smiling. Roadside instinctively took a few steps back, nearly tripping over her own feet. She looked at the photo, then back up at the statue. It wasn’t smiling. Her mother’s face was emotionless.
Back when their mother was alive, they used to call out to each other in a sing song-y voice, laughing at ridiculous variations of each other’s names. Roadside used to call her sister Turquoise, Turkey. And their younger brother Dylan became Dill Pickle. New nicknames were common, so much so that visitors to their household used to scrunch their noses in confusion, you said her name is Roadrunner? It was an inside joke that only Roadside, Turquoise, Dylan, and their mother understood. This memory sparked an idea. Roadside wondered if the statue would respond to her mother’s name.
“Lucie?”
“….”
Her voice was met with rustling juniper branches and nearby crows. But in the sunlight, Roadside thought she saw a shadow move.
“Lucie—”
Before Roadside could call out again, she heard humming. It spun in the air, grazing like bluebird talons at Roadside’s earlobes, tangling in the thickets of thorns from nearby sage bushes. The humming grew louder and louder and before she could think, Roadside’s legs had moved on their own.
She ran back to her car, up over a large cluster of rocks and across the wash, kicking up dirt that wafted back into her mouth and eyes. In her frenzy, Roadside scraped her arm against passing trees. She winced as thin lines of blood rose from her skin, spreading like red veins in her right arm. The cuts stung, but Roadside kept running. The further away she got, the lower and lower the humming became, until it disappeared completely.
As she jumped in her car, forgetting to slip on her seatbelt, and sped down the old town’s dirt backroads, Roadside’s head vibrated with burning silence.
XXX
Roadside will never forget her mother’s voice. When she was a baby, her mother used to sing the most beautiful songs. Her words went high and low, crisper than the winter air that pinched at their cheeks with calloused hands. Roadside’s mother used to joke; I’ll be singing at my own funeral. In her mind, Roadside expected something showy, perhaps the old local band that her mother used to sing with, or even a makeshift stage set up with sparkly boxes and chairs. But, on her death bed, Roadside’s mother sang softly, surrounded by beeping machines and white wallpaper.
When I was a girl, I jumped through my mother’s fields. When I was a girl, I sang the old songs.
When I was a girl, I refused to keep my lips sealed. And I twirled and spun and danced all night long.
Now that I’m old, don’t let go of my hand. Now that I’m old, listen to my songs.
Now that I’m old, I know you gotta watch where you land. As the sun in the sky keeps shining, long and strong.
The hospital was quiet the morning Roadside’s mother died. The nurses and doctors didn’t say anything, their faces were contorted by pity’s harsh touch. Even the hallways, which always seemed to bustle with patients and loud click-clackety footsteps, fell to a hush. The world seemed determined to move on, invisible hands clutching Roadside’s throat, picking at her skin with sharp nails. She wondered if her siblings felt the same, silenced by their mother’s death.
On the hospital bed, their mother was bundled up in multiple blankets. Her hair, cut short and greasy, fell like damp leaves on her cheeks. It was hard to maintain long hair in the hospital, so their mother made the heartbreaking choice to cut it. She forced a smile as she pulled shears from her patched sewing bag. Later that night, Roadside, Dylan, and Turquoise burned their mother’s hair in the stove fire, it smelt like sulfur and cedar.
In the pale hospital lights, their mother’s face looked flat, and Roadside resisted the urge to shake her shoulders, to scream her name, shimá please keep singing. But instead, Roadside held her mother’s limp hand tighter and continued the song with her till the end.
When I was a girl, I cried over lovers. When I was girl, I never ever moved on. When I was a girl, I hid under covers.
And I wondered how birds spread their wings so far long.
Now that I’m old, I won’t forget your kind words. Now that I’m old, I’ll carry the burden.
Now that I’m old, I won’t be lost in the herd.
And I’ll remember that living isn’t always filled with hurting.
When Roadside finished singing, she slowly let go of her mother’s hand and folded her arms across her still body. Her mother’s hair, dry and tangled, still looked glossy in the hospital’s fluorescent overhead lights. She brushed a bit of it behind her mother’s ear, caressing her right earlobe before pulling away. Roadside was used to seeing their mother’s face sunburnt. Their mother spent so much time outside, playing her guitar at various street corners, that she’d come home dark and sweaty. But here, after spending weeks in the hospital, their mother’s skin was the lightest Roadside had ever seen, a sickly olive that made her hair look jet black. From their mother’s stories, Roadside had assumed she’d been a beautiful woman. And Roadside wanted to believe beauty lasted forever. So, that’s how Roadside remembered her, as beautiful.
The doctors hadn’t been able to find anything wrong with their mother, but it was obvious that her health had declined rapidly. When she was hospitalized, Roadside hated to admit it, but deep in her gut, she knew that their mother wasn’t going to come back out. It’s almost like she made a deal with the devil, one nurse said, and that’s why we can’t help her.
Roadside remembered an old story their mother used to tell through song as a kid. Details littered like stars on a dark blanket, not yet molded into constellations, but the ending of that story stuck with her. No one makes deals with the devil for themselves, their mother whispered, they do it for the ones they love.
Before Roadside walked out of the hospital room and into the waiting room, where her younger siblings were huddled together, she erased this bedridden image of her mother from her memory. Choosing instead to remember their mother as she was singing. Turquoise screamed and cried; I want to see mom! But Roadside refused to let them past her. Dylan just watched, with still eyes, from his seat, refusing to stand no matter how much Roadside tugged on his arm. After spending years listening to their mother sing, laugh, yell, scream, all they could hear now was silence, a long painful silence that seemed to never end. Only broken by the dim echo of footsteps, as their mother slipped on her worn leather shoes and traveled to the next world.
XXX
Their mother used to swear she was born singing. Her voice, high and stern, even at her newborn age, echoing between red rock, twisting the trees with a deep breath that carried notes up into the sky. As a young girl, their mother whistled tunes back to birds and took time to learn their early morning babbling. The birds would huddle in trees, and their mother used to watch them from the window, envious of their flock. She imagined feathers springing up like hairs along her arms and legs; black like her ponytail, haloed in the sunlight, and barely touching her shoulders. From her grandmother’s hogan, their mother would raise her hands, and fall to the earth, before flapping once and sweeping up towards the clouds.
Roadside knew that their mother wanted to be a bird. In the pantry, their mother kept pieces of stationary covered in bird prints and shadows. And, in weirder places, like behind the toilet seat, their mother kept rotten bird breaks and bones. Roadside discovered the beaks and bones one day after school. She tried to flush the toilet and the water rose, it overflowed and collected at the base of her shoes. Roadside didn’t want to call her mom, so she rushed to pull dirty towels and clothing from the laundry basket, hoping the dingy cloth would soak up the water. Once the toilet stopped overflowing and the water mopped up, Roadside returned the wet t-shirts and pants to the basket. The disgusting smell of fresh pee and poop lingered in the air. It took days before the smell disappeared into the washer.
The image of raw bird bones and beaks never left Roadside’s mind. Not even while her mother sang such beautiful songs, music that invited snow and white feathers, things that were beautiful and pure, not grim and disgusting. Sometimes Roadside wondered if their mother was a witch. Not the hunched, green witches with gangly brooms, but the scary kind with dry blood underneath their nails and skin-breaking curses on their tongues. The kind of witches that stole locks of hair and didn’t hesitate to burn flesh to get what they wanted. The kind of witches that their people only dared to whisper about in empty hallways and sheltered homes, where ceremonies that chased them away took place. Witches who traded their souls for beauty and talent, making deals with beings that walked on four legs.
Roadside never told her siblings what she thought. And she especially didn’t ask their mother. She let these thoughts sit like heavy sandstone in her stomach, content to stay like that until something sliced her belly open and the rocks fell out.
XXX
Before their mother got sick, Roadside remembered sitting in the living room with her younger siblings, listening to their mother play the guitar, this has been passed down from your grandmother and her grandmother. Their mother’s long fingers strummed the guitar, filling all the cracks in the wall. They had the song memorized. So, when their mother sang, they sang with her, following the melody like baby ducklings being led to a pond.
From the wings of birds, flying in the sky
To the feathers and beaks, of those singing so high. I stand with my hands well above my head.
Praying to Father Sky and Mother Earth, that my children be fed. That they be taken care of and cherished.
Even when I’m long, long dead.
When I’m caught in the sky, above clouds and the mountains I want you to look up, and choose love over youth fountains. To grow old, hand in hand, before we met again.
To fall to your knees because you’re just human.
In my absence, please learn to stand straight and tall.
For once you can visit me, we’ll shower the earth with beautiful rainfall.
At their young ages, Roadside and her siblings didn’t think much of the song. It was just words they repeated and harmonized with their mother. Even if their voices couldn’t hit all the notes, their mother still smiled, urging them with a gentle nod to keep going, don’t give up shiyazhí, you sound beautiful. And, while Roadside couldn’t shake the odd feeling in her throat, a strange suspicion, unfurling like clenched fists, whenever their mother sang, eyes closed, almost as if she were praying, Roadside knew that her mother’s words were genuine. Even if their singing didn’t sound beautiful, they kept going together and that in itself was beautiful.
Maybe that’s all their mother wanted for Roadside and her siblings: to keep going, and going, and going until they’re reunited in the old beauty.
Roadside pondered this as she sang the song softly to herself when she returned, stepping over tumbleweeds and broken glass. She scaled dry sandstone, and nervously peeked over the hill to check if the statue was still there. It was. Nothing about it looked different. It was still a perfect replica of her mother, standing straight and tall. Her mother’s hands fell at her waist, and her eyes were sharp, the red sandstone somehow recreating the exact light shade of brown.
The statue even wore her mother’s long velvet green skirt, brushing against her ankles, frozen in time. She had on a loose t-shirt, tucked-in along her waist, and wore a light blue jean jacket with bird patches on her shoulders. Their mother loved that jacket. It was a gift from the community, granted at one of their mother’s downtown shows. She was buried in that jacket.
Roadside had thought she’d never see it again. Of course, the colors were gone, washed out with sandstone red, but if she turned her head just a little bit to the left, the glint from the sun almost made it look like the beaded patches were still shining like they used to.
When Roadside showed Dylan and Turquoise the picture, they thought it was photoshopped. And then they got mad at Roadside for playing such an awful prank on them. It took hours, but eventually, Roadside was able to convince Turquoise to visit the statue. She waited in the car. Roadside turned around, a little wary about turning her back to the statue, and waved to her sister, signaling that she could come out.
Turquoise, as the youngest sibling, wasn’t old enough to fully recognize death when their mother passed. The day of the funeral, she asked why their mother wasn’t waking up. Everyone told her to be quiet, to shut her mouth. But Roadside tugged her outside, lowered herself to her knees, and taught Turquoise about death, mom isn’t sleeping. She’s not coming back. When you die, you don’t come back. Turquoise still didn’t cry. She just nodded her small head and sat in the hallway with Roadside for the rest of the service.
It was a little harder for Turquoise to navigate the rocky terrain, nearly tripping over knee high weeds and creosote bushes. But, when she made it to the sandstone hills, Roadside extended her arm and helped pull Turquoise up. Her little legs struggled to grip the rock, but soon she was standing right next to Roadside, albeit out of breath. In a quiet exchange, Roadside smiled and went to let go of her sister’s hand. But her loud inhalation broke the silence, and Turquoise’s fingers suddenly locked Roadside’s hand in a tight grip.
“You weren’t lying.”
“’Course I wasn’t.”
“…”
“What is it?”
“No idea.”
“…”
“Can I touch it?” Turquoise took a step closer, but was instantly pulled back by her older sister.
“No, we don’t know what it is.”
“…”
“It’s mom.” Something in Turquoise’s voice, something final and definite, made Roadside nervous.
“It’s not mom.”
“…”
Turquoise couldn’t stop looking at it. Her eyes were big and glowing, if Roadside wasn’t mistaken, she’d say Turquoise looked excited. “You said the dead never come back.”
“Mom didn’t come back.”
“…”
“Mom?” Turquoise slipped from Roadside’s grip and ran toward the statue, “Mom!”
Before Roadside could snatch her sister’s arm, she tripped on a piece of red rock and fell to the ground. A piercing sting erupted from her knees; she’d scraped them. The blood bled through her jeans, turning them a dark, dark brown. “Turquoise!”
Before Roadside could stand, she watched helplessly as her younger sister threw herself into the statue, wrapping her arms around its hard surface in a tight hug.
As if cued by touch, the statue started to hum. Turquoise jumped back.
“Get away from that thing!” Roadside grunted as she stood, attempting to pull Turquoise away.
“No! It’s mom!” She struggled against Roadside’s grip. “We just need to listen to her. She has her guitar. She wants to sing for us!”
“There’s no guitar, it’s just a statue of mom!” Roadside kept pulling, nearly tearing her sister’s shirt.
“The guitar is by her feet, it’s there. You just can’t see it,” Turquoise pleaded.
“There’s nothing there!”
The humming got louder and louder, until Roadside couldn’t hear Turquoise anymore. Panic rose in her throat; this was a mistake. They needed to get out of here. But before Roadside could hike Turquoise up over her shoulder and run for the car, she heard a guitar. It started out softly, so much so that Roadside thought she was imagining it. But soon, the guitar strums got louder and more confident. They both froze. The playing bounced between chords. The statue kept humming as the guitar churned out an easy acoustic melody. Both girls found themselves stepping closer, waiting to hear their mother’s voice. But slowly, just as the strumming had begun, it got quieter and quieter. The humming grew softer and softer. Before eventually both disappeared.
Roadside and Turquoise didn’t move. They were afraid, but also amazed and deathly curious. Around them, the sounds of the desert picked up again; wind picking at dry juniper branches and dirt running across rough sandstone surfaces. Eventually, Roadside looked at her younger sister, not sure what she was expecting, and sure as hell not sure what to say. But Turquoise was crying. Tears fell down her face and got caught in her mouth. Pieces of snot collected at the base of her nose. Roadside immediately pulled her into a tight hug, lightly brushing her hand through Turquoise’s hair, a gesture that Roadside had picked up from their mother. Turquoise cried for a long time, and Roadside held her longer. As they sat like that, tangled in each other’s limbs, confused and unsure about everything, their mother’s statue watched them. Roadside knew that Turquoise had been holding in her emotions for a whole year, and she wondered if the heat of her tears, heavy and feverish, had set off their mother’s statue.
XXX
Later, Roadside and Turquoise will wonder if they remembered things correctly. Emotions were set off like wildfires and confusion ate away at their memories, picking them like meaty bones turned dry. Roadside could only think about the feeling of holding Turquoise as she cried and cried and cried. The walk back to the car was quiet and the drive silent, except for old static from the radio. Dylan had dinner ready by the time they got back to the house, but neither Roadside nor Turquoise sat down to eat. Instead, they pulled a confused Dylan into a hug and moved to the couch, where their mother used to sleep during the day.
No one returned to the statue for a long time. Dylan refused to visit their mother’s statue, it’s not good to be near ashes. Roadside wanted to argue that they weren’t just ashes, it’s their mother’s ashes. But Dylan stood his ground, almost as stubbornly as their mother’s sandstone statue. The scrapes on Roadside’s knees healed over into light scars. And Turquoise’s tears dried permanent stains along her cheeks. But both girls kept what happened a secret, choosing instead to remember their mother through her old guitar. Turquoise spent more time crying than she did smiling, but Roadside knew, holding in her tears for a year must have taken a toll on her eyes and heart. While their mother’s statue remained a mystery, they never forgot her songs.
When I was a girl, I cried over lovers. When I was girl, I never ever moved on. When I was a girl, I hid under covers.
And I wondered how birds spread their wings so far long.
Now that I’m old, I won’t forget your kind words. Now that I’m old, I’ll carry the burden.
Now that I’m old, I won’t be lost in the herd.
And I’ll remember that living isn’t always filled with hurting. Because when I make deals with the devil
I make them for you.
No one sells their soul for themselves. For my love is my only truth.
Roadside did her best to strum the melody on the guitar. From the kitchen, Turquoise and Dylan instantly recognized the song and, lowly, started singing as well. And somehow, Roadside didn’t know how, but deep down, she knew, that their mother’s statute was singing too. Alone but loud, in between two sister mesas, where ashes fell like rainfall.
