Moss

          He always looked at it on his way to the city. Its regal white stone that once reflected light from the early morning sun had been dulled by heavy moss. The man regarded the thing somberly. His vehicle hissed to a stop, rattling the crates of vegetables in the trunk. Birds sang along the canopy above and a small lizard crawled around the edges of the thing. The man turned to it and paused to read the words inscribed on the stone, now almost illegible from the slow creep of nature.

          He looked both ways down the narrow road before pulling a small chisel from the bag on the seat next to him. He got down from his truck and walked towards the thing, crossing the small rusted gate that separated it from the forest. The sun was out, but the air was crisp and cool.

          He climbed up a few feet of stone and started scraping at the moss, letting it drop to the overgrown path below him. He started with the arch and moved down along its curve to the main block of white stone. The corner of his chisel dug into the ridges of the carved words. He wiped drops of sweat from his brow, jumped back to the path below, and trekked to his vehicle. As it hissed silently with electricity and began to move, the man turned back to the thing, nodded, and accelerated down the path towards the city.

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—

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          Mid-rises patterned with red, yellow, and blue appeared on the horizon as he approached Coyuca de Benítez. Down the main street, the glass dome of the Common Goods Center, held up by limestone pillars adorned with green-red snakes climbing their height, stood tall against the buildings around it.

          Children watered the gardens in the middle of apartment complexes, finishing their early morning chores before school started. The kids under sixteen didn’t have the luxury of skipping school for the People’s Assembly meeting. A few parents stood outside, drinking coffee and waiting for the meeting to begin at 10 A.M. As the man moved past the residential road, he stopped to let a tram go by. Its sides looked like a Siquieros mural.

          He parked his vehicle on the curb under one of the large ceibas that surrounded the commons. He began unloading wooden crates when a young man pulling a large cart walked towards him.

          “Flores!” the young man exclaimed while shaking his hand. “Nice morning, isn’t it?”

          Flores nodded and began putting the crates on the cart. The young man quickly moved to help him.

          “Lots of apaxtleco this time, huh? What do you say about mole for next week? We got some nice chicken from the compañeros down in San Nicolás-”

          “I won’t be staying to eat,” Flores said, “but thank you for the offer.”

          “You sure? María is gonna be working the kitchen next week, and you know her mole is good. Or stay for today! Pablo made this amazing seafood morisqueta for the Assembly-”

          “It’s fine Guillermo, really. I have food at home.”

          Guillermo smiled wryly and put away the last of the crates. “Come once in a while. The food’s good!”

          He pulled the cart back towards the commons.

          Flores waved and got back into the truck. He drove for a little while until he arrived at the edge of the Coyuca river. He parked at the curb and walked into a small garage at the edge of the street. The woman inside turned when she heard the door open and smiled.

          “Flores, good morning! What brings you here today?”

          “I’m just here to renew my Commons permit for the truck. And good morning to you too, Marifer.”

She took out a small notebook and jotted something down with a pen. “Isn’t the permit for next week?”

          “Better sooner than later, right?”

          Marifer chuckled. She turned towards a small machine behind the counter. After a weak whirl, the machine printed out a small card. “Same thing as always, scan this and it should update. Dissolve the card in water for the plants. Are you staying to eat today? Pablo made this—”

          “I’ve been told, and no, I won’t be staying today.”

          “Elusive as always, aren’t you? I’ll go to Aguas Blancas myself and drag you out of the house one of these days.”

          Without another word, he exited the garage and drove off.

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—

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          Flores’ chisel dug into the crevices of the white stone again the next morning. The moss, he thought, was growing faster. The chisel cried out against the stone with a horrid screech. A stubborn bit of moss remained on one of the Es.

          After reaching Coyuca and leaving the vegetables at the commons, Flores sat by the river, imagining its veins running through the earth and south into the Pacific Ocean. Across the river, a group of young boys carried crates of white corn toward the train that crossed the bridge into Coyuca. For a long time he sat by the river, watching the train go from east to west and back again. He had never taken the train. He could go so far, Flores thought. He could go to the south towards Buenos Aires or to the north until he hit the Arctic Circle. He could stay in the Andes or the beaches or the forests. A train and then a boat and he’d be in Paris, in Rome, in Cairo, in Damascus, in Kabul, in Seoul. A boat back and once again here, to Mérida, to Guanajuato, to San Cristóbal, to Managua, to San José, to Bogotá, to Caracas, to Quito, to Lima, to Santiago. He could let go so easily.

 

 

—

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          The moss got thicker as the weeks went by. The stone soaked up rain and the weeds growing beside the grass seemed to swallow the base whole. Flowers grew and grew in kaleidoscopic sequences towards the top, swallowing the stone into the Earth. Roots from the nearby trees pushed and cracked the stone.

          Moss grew into patterns, into faces, into names. Veins were fed with memories of fresh blood. Flores’ chisel splintered the stone and it seemed to bleed. He screamed into the forest and it didn’t even reach the trees.

          The People’s Assembly started early at 9:58. The committee opened the floor after discussion on the Commons and local news. A few people raised their hands. Potholes, transit delays, kids playing pranks, artwork to go up on the building walls, not enough books on the trams’ library cars; all the usual.

          A hand rose up at the back of the room.

          “Yes, at the back,” the committee head responded, “What’s your name?”

          “Flores,” he said, bluntly, “just that.”

          “Oh, Flores! What a lovely surprise! Thank you for the chiles last time—”

          “I’d like to propose a maintenance project.”

          “Oh— yes, of course! Go on.”

          Flores took out a folder and a stack of papers. “I have the full proposal here. I’d like to request maintenance for the 28th of June monument. Cleaning and maintaining of the monument will happen two times a week, one of which I will take care of—”

          “I’m sorry, Flores,” the committee head said, “... for the interruption. The 28th of June monument is outside of the Coyuca People’s Assembly’s land jurisdiction. Have you taken it up with the Aguas Blancas Assembly?”

          “I have. They said the monument was outside the Assembly’s land.”

          “Oh, that is weird. Have you tried Zarzal?”

          “I have. They said the same thing.”

          “Hm… What about Lomas?”

          “They said the same thing, sir.”

          “And Pén—”

          “I’ve tried everyone, sir!” Flores stood up and smashed his fist against the wooden table. “I’ve tried Pénjamo, San Salvador de las Pozas, Cimientos, Carrera Larga, you, and not one of them have given a single fucking answer!”

          “Flores, there’s no need to—”

          “There is! I need to scream! You just want to let everyone forget? How fucking dare you! Those people are the reason we have what we have now! And now you’re all happy to just forget them—”

          “FLORES! The assembly is not a screaming match. The committee asks you to either settle down or leave.”

          Flores looked around the room and clicked his tongue. He briskly gathered up the papers on his desk and stood.

          “Fuck you,” he said, and left.

 

 

—

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          The harvest was always slow this time of year. A couple of avocados, some potatoes, a few guajillos, nothing much. Flores didn’t go into Coyuca for two weeks. The haul wasn’t enough. He thought of trains, of boats, of movement. He dreamed of mountains and beaches. He dreamed of America, of Asia, of Europe, of Africa; anywhere but here. In his dreams, wings sprouted from his back and brought him to places unknown. On his back he carried that stone, that monument of resistance, the names of his fathers and mothers.

 

 

—

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          The monument was gone the next morning. The Earth had swallowed it whole. Flores, for a while, stood in front of the gate, now overtaken by flowers blooming from deep-green vines. Blood-red flowers. The moss was skin and bones and guts, names buried in the soil like bodies.

          Flores ran. He left his vehicle and crates of avocados, tomatoes, and onions behind. His feet ached and stone dug into the sole of his shoes on the way to Coyuca. The sounds of the city, water falling on the leaves, the sips of coffee, birds singing, were all muffled by Flores’ heartbeat in his ears. He ran past the crossing, and the tram stopped just before hitting him. The colour drained out of the Commons’ pillars as they came into view. As he rushed into the centre square, his eyes were completely clouded. The only smell his nostrils could pick up was moss, the deep, rotting smell of moss.

          He felt it grow around his ankles, tying itself around his legs, and creeping up to his torso. It grew into his lungs. He couldn’t breathe. It grew into and out of everything. His nose, his mouth, his eyes, his ears, his—

          “Flores!”

          He turned his head towards the sound of his name.

          It was there. The monument was there. Its white stone, clean and polished, reflecting light from the early-morning sun. Flowers and husks of corn were placed around its base. Next to it was a small golden plaque. It read:

 

 

IN HONOR OF THE

ORGANIZACIÓN CAMPESINA

SIERRA DEL SUR

JUNE 28, 1995

BRAVE MARTYRS FOR A NEW WORLD

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          “Flores!” Guillermo ran towards him. “Um … surprise! We wanted to show this to you like a week ago, but you didn’t come in and we were kinda worried that you wouldn’t come back— b-but everyone in the Assembly helped out! Marifer got some of the trucks together, and a bunch of us gathered around and—”

          Flores hit Guillermo’s shoulder lightly.

          “No more surprises like this, okay?” Flores said, smiling. “Next time, tell me beforehand.”

          Guillermo chuckled. “Fine, I’m sorry. Will some mole make it up to you? We still have leftovers from María’s batch. Your apaxtlecos, remember?”

          “Oh, I … I’ll … I’ll stay, why not. If this mole isn’t better than my grandma’s I’m not coming back.”

          As he and Guillermo walked back towards the Commons, a velvet-coloured petal from a flower next to the monument flew from a sudden gust of wind.

          It soared through the air until it landed on the Coyuca river. The current carried the petal to the Pacific ocean, when the wind again shot the petal into the air, where it continued to pass through the Earth and its beauties forevermore.