Huitzilin

 by 2021 Fiction First Prize winner Tomas Baiza

I've loved hummingbirds ever since I was a child. I was never obsessed with them, but whenever one buzzed by, I would stop whatever I was doing and watch in mute awe. 

Everyone I knew seemed to infantilize them as cute or adorable, as if they existed for our entertainment. To me, though, they were fast, strong, and courageous. 

Their aggressiveness was somehow benevolent, serious but good-natured, and their jewel-like colors were so bright I could see their sparkling feathers even after I closed my eyes.

We spin and joust. Our kissing shrieks bounce off the kitchen window. Her long beak jabs and thrusts, black eyes wild and dancing in her emerald green crest.

I can't remember when or from whom I learned that the native people of central Mexico venerated hummingbirds as the reincarnated souls of fallen warriors, returned for but a short time. All I know is that it made perfect sense--there could be no better explanation for their furious energy, their frantic need to hurry before being called to their next adventure.

Hummingbirds didn't simply exist. They had a purpose.

I'm trying to teach you," my Papi said. "When we leave this world, He waits. He is patient. Your abuelita taught me that He lets us rest for exactly four years to the day and then brings us back to help Him. Since the beginning, m'ija, He honors us as huitzilin, as hummingbirds, His most honest and loyal warriors."

The first hummingbird I saw after my son died stopped me in my tracks. I stood motionless on the sidewalk near my home, silently pleading for it to come closer. It dipped to drink from a flower in someone's front yard, spinning round often to survey its surroundings. I started to shake with memories of holding my son, of humming a Mexican lullaby to him as the life passed from his body--and then reminded myself that this meeting was a blessing of sorts, that this huitzilin could have chosen anywhere to feed, but it chose this garden just as I walked past. I slowly approached and it rose to hover above the flower bed. The little warrior turned to face me, its wings a blur.

"Hi," I said, and it was gone.

I aim myself at the Sun and race to the only war that was ever worth fighting.

Above Tonatiuh's roar, Papi's last shout comes through. "¡Arriba, m’ija!"

And so, I become light.

*    *    *

 

Tomas Baiza was born and raised in San Jose, California, and now lives in Boise, Idaho. He is a Pushcart-nominated author whose short fiction and poetry have appeared in Parhelion Literary Magazine, Peatsmoke Literary Journal, The Rush Magazine, Obelus, [PANK] Magazine, The Meadow, The Good Life Review, Passengers Journal, Kelp Journal, The Write Launch, and elsewhere.

Read Tomas Baiza's "Huitzilin" (pp. 156-160) and other Fiction,
Poetry, Creative Nonfiction, and Prose Poetry
in Bacopa Literary Review 2021