The Owl

It started about 3 months ago. I would notice he, then he, I. Truth be told, I am not sure who would notice who first, if there’s even a chance he hadn’t noticed me first every time. What I do know, is that his presence was never unnoticed. Unnervingly eerie. Until that night.

Northern New Mexico can be a rather vicious climate during the winter; almost void of any moisture, aside from morning ice that has sucked every last drop of hope out of the desolate desert earth. Chama, where we stay, is a beautifully, tough town. Angry winds often scrape the isolated fauna, and it’s not uncommon for sixty-degree days to turn below freezing as the sun sets. Life, here, can be a struggle, for the microscopic semblances and the towering cottonwoods alike. However, much like its neighbors in Texas or Oklahoma, when ice hits, ice HITS. Shutting everything down from the roads and interstates to the diners, service stations, and legal precincts. Ice coupled with atrociously vicious winds creates an environment only the insane wish to stand. That being said, maybe I’m starting to understand why I stayed here. That, and for my grandmother.

Growing up, I often struggled to make friends. I had long, black hair that would always run afoul and get caught in my ultra-thick glasses, and my timing was always impeccably miserable. I think that’s why I chose the isolation of northern NM. That, and the bond my grandmother and I share. We are best friends on the worst days, and some will laugh we are the same, in two, on the best days. So of the whopping one-thousand people in my city, my Grandmother and I interact with 5, maybe 6 people regularly. This is my peace. Most know of us, but, we tend to keep to our own. Our property is north of the city, maybe by 10 minutes. Rest assured, it’s a long, bumpy, and exhilarating ten minutes in our ’88 jeep, but it’s not too far off from civilization. We have a small farm life established, enough to sustain ourselves and occasionally make some profit, atleast. Hence the 5 or 6 people we interact with being those at the Market and Gas Station, usually purchasing our crops or trading toilet paper for our corn. Every now and then we will sell a goat or 2, as they often end up as the centerpiece of a matanza. I personally don’t like the idea, but it’s a tradition centuries old for some of the folks here, who am I to judge? A market run is actually where this all started. This, being the story we’re unfolding.

Being in her late 90’s now, my grandmother doesn’t talk much. I remember the day we went to the market and sold John 2 sacks of corn. For the first time ever, Juanita wasn’t with him. Juanita always accompanies him at the market. Their whole family helps run it, but today, it was quiet. No one talked, their kids did not laugh. Juanita was gone. This usual center for boisterous laughter and bountiful conversations was mute, void, desolate. Fearing disruption, I decided not to ask any questions, but as we were leaving, my grandmother spoke up. “Where is she”, she said solemnly. John, simply nodded and looked upwards. As if that sufficed as an answer. My grandmother followed his eyes, I had looked down, attempting to speed time forward by disengaging, but unbeknownst to me at the time, she understood all too well what had happened.

Roughly a month after the sudden disappearance of Juanita, we had our first snow. Unrelated, but heavily weighing on my mind, I couldn’t help but wonder if she was out there. Perhaps even today, somewhere in the snow, hopefully not freezing to death, but maybe lost or just escaping the troubles of reality? Either way, as I sat in the attic of our cabin and watched the delicate snow trickle down the sleek skyline from our narrow window, I pondered. It was as the snow fell, and I gazed off into a deeper existence that I came to notice him. Sound, patient, eerie. He just sat on an old cottonwood that day. Not at the top, but far from the bottom; he rested his wings perhaps, as he sat, in the silence of the country snowfall and gazed at me. I did not think much of him. I did not recognize his significance. If, perhaps I had avoided caving into my personal flaws and learned to interact with others, just maybe, I would have been able to recognize the situation as it unraveled.

A week after our snowfall, I found myself spinning my mind constantly around the owl. Fore every morning, and each evening, I could find him perched on the cottonwood. Motionless, white, he turned into the pure essence of fear. My grandmother noticed him yesterday, and she has not been outside since. I mean, my grandmother never passes an opportunity to be in the garden, or spending time with Lillith, our dairy cow. This has awoken a sense of urgency within myself, in part to find out what’s going on, but also to end this nerve-wrecking, stomach-turning, lingering fear that nips at our heels with every step. I make my trips to the barn quick, and I have been keeping the animals corralled. I couldn’t help but think about Juanita. Was this, in any way, related to her? On the evening on the 13th, a particularly dark night, I laid eyes on him in a new setting, and at a new time. He no longer perched solemnly on an over-extended cottonwood branch. He no longer used the light of day to spread his presence. He now sat atop the barn, a mere thirty-meters from my bedroom window, staring at the house as if the structure was a field mouse. Does he see us? More-so, is he what my grandmother saw at the market?

My grandmother hasn’t spoken much in the last 3 days. It’s as if the ominous presence of the night owl has shifted her being. Today she asked me about the animals. Almost as if she had been anticipating mal events. “The animals are doing better than you”, I told her, and kind of laughed. She didn’t respond. Since then, she had been keeping herself busy with a weaving project in the attic. I was dying to know what was on her mind. I am convinced this owl has something to do with Juanita’s disappearance. I decided that tomorrow I’d go into town and talk to John, but in the meantime, I needed to establish what was running through my grandmother’s mind. For the majority of my life, this woman has been my everything, my best friend, and for the first time ever I feel distanced. As if I barely know her. It was shortly after 8pm, the sun had since set and the carrot stew I put on was at the peak point of flavor perfection. I grabbed a bowl, and headed upstairs to break through the mental barrier my grandmother had built, and with more confidence than I had ever had before I was ready to confront my fears. As I made my way up the old staircase, I heard nothing. No music, no rocking on the wooden floors from her creaky old chair. I wondered if she had fallen asleep. As I opened the door and took a step in, with the biggest possible smile I could conjure on my face, I instantly dropped the bowl. Our narrow, old window was open, her chair, the room, empty, and there on the window sat the owl. Eyes blacker than night, with a soul to match. The door suddenly and aggressively slammed shut.