blow in the breeze. “That is a good way to put it. Here’s what you should do. When you get an idea for a story, write down the idea. Don’t worry about getting anything right. Then think about that idea and let it simmer as you think. Write down ideas, thoughts, anything you can imagine. When I was young I wrote down single words I liked or I’d describe someone I found interesting.”
“But—”
“Don’t worry about what comes first and what comes last. Just write. The pieces will come together at the right time.” She threaded her fingers through her hair and motioned toward the house. “Come inside. I have something to show you.”
I tucked my story cards back into the bag and followed her to the screened-in porch, where colored pieces of glass hung suspended by ribbons from the rafters. As she walked by, she ran her hand through them. Their music floated across the porch, jingling like a tambourine.
“What are these?” I asked, reaching to touch them.
“They are truth catchers made of handblown glass. The artist heats the glass in the furnace and uses a pipe to blow and shape the glass into anything she desires. The light reflected by the catchers carries the truth. You see this one?” She pointed to a turquoise square. “This one captures the light of the first full moon of the year.”
I peered through a peach-colored heart, but all I saw was Socorro’s porch bathed in sunny hues.
“I hear you see things far away, sometimes as far away as the future,” I said, my eyes now fixed on the other pieces of sparkling glass.
Her lips curled into a small smile. “And what else do you hear?”
“Mateo says you could see a
tortilla
on the moon.”
Socorro chuckled. “And what do you think?”
“I don’t really see how a
tortilla
could get to the moon.”
Laughing, she pulled down a yellow truth catcher. “Only the right person can see the truth in the light and what it is saying.” She handed me the round piece of glass. “I want you to have this.”
The golden glass was half the size of a
tortilla
, with several tiny air bubbles suspended inside. But the outside felt smooth, like Nana’s hands.
“Hang it near your window. It will catch the light of the sun when it comes into your room. There, you will see the truth.” She spoke softly.
“What kind of truth?” I wondered.
“The most important kind of truth. You will know when the time is right.”
She crossed the porch and sat in a large easy chair in the corner. “Now, you have another question for me?”
It seemed rude to ask her such a silly question now, after she had been so nice to me—but I really wanted to see Mateo’s map. And to prove to him I was brave. “Your hair … I want to know … how did it get so white?”
Socorro pulled her long hair over her right shoulder and studied it in the fading afternoon light. “I have my father’s hair. He was born in the moonlight, as was I.” She turned her face to me.
“Every year, during the moon’s harvest, the moonbeams turn another strand to white. It is where all my wisdom and power come from.”
“Why is that a secret?” I asked.
“It’s not. I’ve just … no one has asked before.”
I set the truth catcher in the canvas bag. The weight of it anchored the bag to my side as it hung from my shoulder. Before pressing open the screen door, I turned back to Socorro. “Can I come back sometime?”
“Anytime.”
When I stepped outside the gate, Mateo lunged forward. “Well? Did you find out the secret of her hair?”
Maggie pulled on the edge of my shirt. “Tell us about her hair, Izzy.”
Maggie and Mateo stared at me, waiting, as if my words really mattered. As if nothing in the world was more important.
I leaned forward. “It’s the moonlight. She said it gives her wisdom.”
“She doesn’t see ghosts?” Mateo sounded disappointed.
“No ghosts,” I said.
“Is the moonlight going to turn my hair white too?” Maggie asked, her eyes wide
“But—”
“Don’t worry about what comes first and what comes last. Just write. The pieces will come together at the right time.” She threaded her fingers through her hair and motioned toward the house. “Come inside. I have something to show you.”
I tucked my story cards back into the bag and followed her to the screened-in porch, where colored pieces of glass hung suspended by ribbons from the rafters. As she walked by, she ran her hand through them. Their music floated across the porch, jingling like a tambourine.
“What are these?” I asked, reaching to touch them.
“They are truth catchers made of handblown glass. The artist heats the glass in the furnace and uses a pipe to blow and shape the glass into anything she desires. The light reflected by the catchers carries the truth. You see this one?” She pointed to a turquoise square. “This one captures the light of the first full moon of the year.”
I peered through a peach-colored heart, but all I saw was Socorro’s porch bathed in sunny hues.
“I hear you see things far away, sometimes as far away as the future,” I said, my eyes now fixed on the other pieces of sparkling glass.
Her lips curled into a small smile. “And what else do you hear?”
“Mateo says you could see a
tortilla
on the moon.”
Socorro chuckled. “And what do you think?”
“I don’t really see how a
tortilla
could get to the moon.”
Laughing, she pulled down a yellow truth catcher. “Only the right person can see the truth in the light and what it is saying.” She handed me the round piece of glass. “I want you to have this.”
The golden glass was half the size of a
tortilla
, with several tiny air bubbles suspended inside. But the outside felt smooth, like Nana’s hands.
“Hang it near your window. It will catch the light of the sun when it comes into your room. There, you will see the truth.” She spoke softly.
“What kind of truth?” I wondered.
“The most important kind of truth. You will know when the time is right.”
She crossed the porch and sat in a large easy chair in the corner. “Now, you have another question for me?”
It seemed rude to ask her such a silly question now, after she had been so nice to me—but I really wanted to see Mateo’s map. And to prove to him I was brave. “Your hair … I want to know … how did it get so white?”
Socorro pulled her long hair over her right shoulder and studied it in the fading afternoon light. “I have my father’s hair. He was born in the moonlight, as was I.” She turned her face to me.
“Every year, during the moon’s harvest, the moonbeams turn another strand to white. It is where all my wisdom and power come from.”
“Why is that a secret?” I asked.
“It’s not. I’ve just … no one has asked before.”
I set the truth catcher in the canvas bag. The weight of it anchored the bag to my side as it hung from my shoulder. Before pressing open the screen door, I turned back to Socorro. “Can I come back sometime?”
“Anytime.”
When I stepped outside the gate, Mateo lunged forward. “Well? Did you find out the secret of her hair?”
Maggie pulled on the edge of my shirt. “Tell us about her hair, Izzy.”
Maggie and Mateo stared at me, waiting, as if my words really mattered. As if nothing in the world was more important.
I leaned forward. “It’s the moonlight. She said it gives her wisdom.”
“She doesn’t see ghosts?” Mateo sounded disappointed.
“No ghosts,” I said.
“Is the moonlight going to turn my hair white too?” Maggie asked, her eyes wide
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