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Magical Realism
In New Mexico, the mystical elements of magical realism are everywhere you look, if you’re paying attention. Today, on this cool morning, as I left my house to walk the dog in my neighborhood park, I ran right into my two weeping neighbors. When I asked what was wrong, she nodded at the tarp-wrapped bundle in her arms, tears streaking her face. She couldn’t speak — just shook her head.
Her mother said softly, gently, “a coyote killed our cat last night.” I expressed my condolences, as she draped her arm around her daughter and guided her slowly into the house.
I ducked under the canopy of desert willows to the park and let the dog off his leash, following him as he bounded forward, revisiting all of his favorite spots. I called him over and grabbed him by the collar as we crossed the road into the last section of park, which overlooks the river.
Along the sidewalk, I noticed a sprinkling of blood-red rose petals leading to the overlook, which was draped in white tulle, the park benches draped in plastic garlands. There was a wedding here last night, despite the storm clouds that threatened, and only a hint of moonlight.
On the return trip, I was compelled to pick up all of the fallen rose petals, still fragrant and damp from the sprinklers. Maybe I’d dry them, I thought. Maybe I’d just hold them in my hand and breathe in their sweet scent…
