The little round window bothered me three days after moving into the house. Reading my book of growing palms, I would often be distracted by the window. I bundled my son in a woven blue blanket because the nights were getting longer. I held him close so he could see the pages, hoping he would murmur back in recognition.

The day I sent for Sopa de Pepitas when our family was sick, the window and its permanence taunted me. The window was so high I wondered who could be giant enough to peek inside it.

The soup’s saltiness and the vast sweetness of the gourd made my throat beat long and full of echoes.

As it began to rain, I tasted the char of bones and wanting. It began to envelop our ancient valley and made me its doll, my son warm and brighter than ever. The wet green plumes flapped and scraped, round window, skulled beak pecking glass, her junk eye on my boy and his coo.