por Blanca Stacey Villalobos

Four point six billion years ago, our solar system was born in darkness. Ice, dust and other organic materials came together to shape what we have come to understand as our place in the universe. We too are shaped by that which has come before us: traces of stardust in our bones, reflected in the night sky, on the surface of water, in the smile of your eyes.

Our mother gave birth to you and your twin on July 25th, 1977. Cuauhtémoc Cristobal Villalobos. The last Aztec emperor to rule over Tenochitlán before the Spanish executed him. Pero, mom didn’t name you after the last ruling emperor…she named you after the futbolista Mexicano. By the way not all Mexicans are given Indigenous names.

De curiosidad, did you happen to look up at the night sky in September of 2024? Did you notice a faint light on the Western edge of the horizon just after sunset? Comet A3’s placement in the night sky was the closest to the sun on September 27th, their tail pointing towards the sun, an ancestor from the beginning of our solar system.

One day after A3’s conjunction with the sun, I woke up clutching my side. Your liver had failed. The bells should have been rung at Chamita, the campo santo near my campsite beckoned a prayer, the elk’s song carrying your spirit towards the sky. The comet continued their route, becoming the brightest comet we had ever seen in the last 27 years. By October 12th they had reached their peak proximity with Earth, bringing your spirit closer to us, accompanied by Venus.

The campo santo at Chamita, taken by Blanca on September 27th, 2024.

We laid you into the Earth two days later. In your hands a bouquet of yerbas I had gathered from our family’s garden:

› Muicle for susto, so that your spirit wouldn’t be lost on its way to the river.

› Salvia mexicana for sweetness, because you deserved so much more of it that this life couldn’t offer.

› Estafiate for dreams, so that you may visit us while we sleep.

You returned to the sky. El cometa de Cuautemóc crossed the river of stars we recognize as the Milky Way. Mom says you’re probably fishing up there, casting your line and feeding us the stories you catch.

~~~

This was first written in 2024, just after returning to Albuquerque from my brother’s funeral in Beaumont, CA. At the mortuary, I mostly spoke in Spanish to the group of pepole that had come to say goodbye. Through tears and tremors I reminded everyone that my brother was in the stars, that they needed to look up once dusk arrived. They would see his spirit soaring above us.