There was a red throated hummingbird lying limpless on its side—in my path. The wind escaped me. I dropped to my knees staring at its shimmering Aurora Borealis in its feathers. Its beak pointed towards the road. Puddles formed in the corners of my almond eyes and all I could do was scoop it up with the leaves from my yard. Then I asked my son to help me give its death purpose—under the white jasmine stars and luscious green vines. 

I thanked it for its beauty, love, laughter, and joy and hoped that its soul would rise towards the marmalade colored mass of hydrogen and helium in our caterpillar shaped solar system. I hoped that it transformed with the rest of us as time paused and wrapped back again. We would meet again soon, as we all are becoming something new. I knew the hummingbird would find the sun’s wind swirling around the earth’s sky and it would find its way home with its fierce warrior heart.

My son tells me that the Aztec sun god, Huitzilopochtli, is a hummingbird and that all his fallen warriors come back as hummingbirds. He has learned that we might be Aztec Nahua. I imagine this as I cover its shimmering wings with dark fertilized soil. I wonder whose spirit I lay in power. A breeze whispers a secret in my ear—my anahata rests in the cradle of my cracked ribs. The leaves in the trees began to dance as the sun held me in its rays. I could feel a zephyr of breath release in response. My heart was safe and soon I would stand outside the window of my grandmother’s bedroom—with my n-99 mask—as my uncle and aunt held her. My uncle placed his hand on her forehead as he knelt to the ground in prayer. He prayed for her safe return home and gave thanks for her life. Normally, a priest would say her last rites—but those are times before COVID-19. I watched, then closed my eyes and meditated. I focused on my grandmother’s light. I wanted her to know that I was also there for my mom and that she didn’t have to fight to stay any longer. My mom knew my grandma loved her. My mom would always love her mom.

My eyes opened to see two of my grandma’s children hold her while the wind from her body floated up towards home—like gravity fusing elements in a star. Everytime I tell people she left this place I will say but not from COVID—not because they asked—but because I don’t want to hear the question. I watched my grandma’s mouth move with the air, as if to say I love you. It will never be the last. 

Perhaps, her wind is part of the sun’s—cascading into the earth’s atmosphere in green, pink, and purple lights. Perhaps, she will live every time the Dodgers crack a baseball past the outfield and the stadium roars from cheers and jeers. Perhaps, she will live as we drink Pepsi and eat chicken enchiladas. Perhaps, she lives in her four children that she raised on her own—after my grandfather passed—or in the homes she bought by working two jobs. Perhaps, she is in the garden with her big floppy hat pulling weeds. Perhaps, she is in our kitchens, teaching her grandchildren and great grandchildren how to make New Mexico chili while sniffling and sweating from the spices. Perhaps, she is taking care of our babies while we are away. Perhaps, she is listening and showing up when nobody else is around.

But I can tell you this, my Grandma Clara is a warrior. As I sit in my garden under a dark blue umbrella, a red throated hummingbird twirls its wings past my head. Then spins around to look at me. She rests her feet on my watermelon plant’s stand and stares back at me. I say hello and smile, my heart pulling closer to my Vishuddha with excitement—fusing into a poem. I think now my grandma is home and now she gets to be in everything and in all of us. My grandmother wasn’t Aztec, but perhaps today, she is staring back at me with her fierce warrior heart. Telling me she loves me. We will meet again soon, as we all are becoming something new.