THE CONVICTION OF THINGS NOT SEEN

I’m meeting him for coffee tomorrow I’m meeting I

Journal of Mar Ma’isa

October 11, 2025

Erica is dead, and Erica is dead, and I am in Rome.

Erica is dead, and The church bells are loud. I used to love hearing bells when I was younger and more of a romantic. Now that I’m old and jaded, I find them mildly annoying.

Erica is dead, and This desk is right under a mirror, which is unfortunate. I just looked up by mistake and saw my old, ugly face and pudgy shoulders. My hair is entirely gray now, streaked with just a few remaining dark strands, cut short as always, butch as ever. I’ve always been secretly proud of that, even growing up in small-town Sagrada where all the aunties despaired that I was such a tomboy, and later gave up on asking me about boyfriends, or when I was getting married. I don’t know why they even thought I had a chance. I’m not an attractive woman, to men or women. I was glad when their questions about my love life dried up.

Erica is dead, and The Vatican folks asked me so many times about Erica’s love life, which is to say they wanted to know if Erica had had a sex life. Those people are so incurably interested in women’s sex lives. I bet the sainthood investigators didn’t spend a lot of time scrutinizing Augustine or Ignatius. Men always get a pass.

Erica is dead, and I finally got up the nerve to open the “Erica” folder on my laptop after not looking inside it for ages. Eleven years now I’ve been storing everything I have about her in that folder, like a dragon hoarding treasure in a cave. Articles about what happened in Churango. Transcripts of the hearings. Photos. Screen shots of text exchanges. Online posts. E-mails from people. I’m trying to trace how we got here. Jet lag isn’t helping, but I found some old texts this afternoon from when the canonization investigations started. Nico was the first person I reached out to when the inquiry began. Makes sense. He’d known Erica longer than I had, and he’s the only priest I can actually stand.

Fri, Jan 10, 2014 at 5:42 PM

I’m meeting him for coffee tomorrow I’m meeting him I Hey Nico—just got a message from some canon I’m meeting him for coffee tomorrow I’m meeting him lawyer at St. Ig wanting to talk about Erica

Oh?

I’m meeting him for coffee tomorrow I’m meeting him I Have you been interrogated by anyone?

Someone came around a couple of

years ago with questions about her

but then I never heard anything more

I’m meeting him for coffee tomorrow I’m meeting him I Why do they want to talk to *me*?

They obv know you were at

Churango at the time

I’m meeting him for coffee tomorrow I’m meeting him I I’m allergic to the Vatican

LMAO

I’m meeting him for coffee tomorrow I’m meeting him I & I really don’t want to talk to some stranger

I’m meeting him for coffee tomorrow I’m meeting him I about what happened

I’m meeting him for coffee tomorrow I’m meeting him I I can’t believe they’re going through with this.

I’m meeting him for coffee tomorrow I’m meeting him I SAINTHOOD. Really?

Well she WAS pretty great

I’m meeting him for coffee tomorrow I’m meeting him I Prayer cards

I’m meeting him for coffee tomorrow I’m meeting him I STATUES

I’m meeting him for coffee tomorrow I’m meeting him I That’s SO not Erica at ALL

I’m meeting him for coffee tomorrow I’m meeting him I VERY Rosita, though, Are they canonizing her

I’m meeting him for coffee tomorrow I’m meeting him I too?!

No

I’m meeting him for coffee tomorrow I’m meeting him I Not exactly SAINT material

She did die with the others

I’m meeting him for coffee tomorrow I’m meeting him I So did Diego

But he wasn’t a practicing Catholic

(Technically)

So they can’t consider him

I’m meeting him for coffee tomorrow I’m meeting him I Yet he was the most Christian Christian of all

I’m meeting him for coffee tomorrow I’m meeting him I Christians. That’s messed up.

I hope Erica makes it. It’s good to have

at least a FEW saints who didn’t spend

all their days in wimples or collars

I’m meeting him for coffee tomorrow I’m meeting him I I guess

What is it the young people say—

representation matters

Saint Erica Rios

Santa Erica

I like it

I’m meeting him for coffee tomorrow I’m meeting him I Ugh. Why can’t they just leave her alone

I’m meeting him for coffee tomorrow I’m meeting him I It was 12 yrs ago

Actually on the early side for a

canonization inquiry

I’m meeting him for coffee tomorrow I’m meeting him I Ha! They’ve opened causes in less time

I’m meeting him for coffee tomorrow I’m meeting him I for people who were assholes

Who’s the canon lawyer?

I’m meeting him for coffee tomorrow I’m meeting him I P.J. Domingo

I’m meeting him for coffee tomorrow I’m meeting him I You know him?

No

I’m just a humble diocesan priest

I’m meeting him for coffee tomorrow I’m meeting him I What’s he gonna ask me?

Probably just what you know about

her life. Her character. Anything that

didn’t come out in other interviews

I’m meeting him for coffee tomorrow I’m meeting him I I’m meeting him for coffee tomorrow

I’m meeting him for coffee tomorrow I’m meeting him I I want you to hear my confession after

Since when do you go to Confession

I’m meeting him for coffee tomorrow I’m meeting him I Never

I’m meeting him for coffee tomorrow I’m meeting him I But I want you to not be able to repeat what I say

I’m meeting him for coffee tomorrow I’m meeting him I even on pain of death

ROFL

Erica is dead, and Keeping in touch with Nico by text and email has been my one source of comfort since Erica died. I wish he were here.

Erica is dead, and I wish she were here.

Erica is dead, and Do you still exist in spirit somewhere? Where are you?

Erica is dead, and Can you hear my thoughts, the way people think you can hear their prayers?

Erica is dead, and Erica. I miss you.

Erica is dead, and Erica is dead, and Erica is ***

Erica Rios: Sagrada’s First Saint?

by Carolina Nuñez

The Xirona Messenger

June 30, 2012

The Archdiocese of Xirona is opening a cause for sainthood for the late Erica Rios, who was killed in an ambush by military special forces in Churango in 2002, along with Sr. Rosita Blevins and Dr. Diego Luarca, who worked in the same community.

Rios was invited to Churango Province by Blevins, a member of the Sisters of Mary Queen of Missions (SMQM), an order dedicated to the alleviation of poverty, the education of children in rural and underserved urban areas, and the provision of safe havens for victims and survivors of domestic violence and trafficking. The Escuela de Guadalupe in Churango, where Blevins and Rios both taught, served children between the ages of six and seventeen from three different mountain communities—Santa Cruz, Mirador, and Palangana.

Rios was born at St. Luke’s Medical Center in Xirona on May 18, 1982 and attended the School of the Sacred Heart, Brenner Preparatory School, and the Universidad de San Ignacio. She subsequently spent a few years on the faculty of the Colegio Nepomuceno in Briñas. Rios receives the title “Servant of God” with the opening of the archdiocesan inquiry, a ceremony for which will take place at the Basilica of St. John the Evangelist in Xirona. The Archbishop of Xirona will read the decree announcing the opening of the inquiry and naming those who will conduct it. If the Church issues a declaration of her heroic virtues, she will be given the title “Venerable,” the second stage in the canonization process.

In the third stage, the candidate is declared “Blessed” (beatified), ordinarily after recognition of a miracle attributable to the candidate’s intercession. Finally, the candidate is declared “Saint” (canonized) if a second miracle occurs and is approved by the Church. Most recognized miracles take the form of inexplicable cures for which there has been extensive medical documentation.

The other two killed in the same attack are not under consideration for canonization. Luarca was no longer a practicing Catholic. The reasons a cause hasn’t been opened for Blevins have not been disclosed. It remains to be seen whether the cause for Rios will be stalled by debates about the nature of her death—whether she was killed for political reasons, or whether she was truly a martyr of the Church. Monsignor Benedict Gray, one of the inquiry’s officials, says, “While political circumstances may contribute to the murder of the Catholic faithful, to be recognized as a martyr, an individual must be killed for ‘hatred of the faith.’” How investigators make this determination is unclear, but the debate can delay a cause for years, as we are seeing in the case of Oscar Romero of El Salvador, whose cause was opened by Pope John Paul II in 1997.

While canonization ordinarily requires recognition of two miracles attributable to the intercession of the candidate, only one is required in cases of martyrdom. If Erica Rios is recognized as a martyr for the faith, she can be beatified without a miracle, but an approved miracle would still be required to name her a saint.

Fr. Nicolas Erretana, Rios’s long-time friend and colleague at the Colegio Nepomuceno, described her as someone who “lived out the Gospel of Christ with joy and a total lack of selfishness.”

Erica is dead, and Erica is dead, and Erica is ***

From: pjdomingo@usis.edu

Date: Mon, Jan 20, 2014 at 9:16 AM

Subject: preliminary report on Rios case

To: benedict.gray@dioxirona.org

Dear Monsignor Gray,

I met with Mar Ma’isa last Saturday to discuss the case of Erica Rios. She seemed quite reluctant to answer questions about her.

My preliminary report is attached.

P.J. Domingo, DCL

Universidad de San Ignacio

Faculty of Canon Law

Erica is dead, and Erica is dead, and Erica is ***

Erica is dead, and Erica is dead, Sun, Jan 19, 2014 at 9:48 PM

So. How did it go?

I’m meeting him for coffee tomorrow I’m meeting him I Disaster

Why?

I’m meeting him for coffee tomorrow I’m meeting him I I was expecting some old priest

I’m meeting him for coffee tomorrow I’m meeting him I not a LAYWOMAN in a SUIT

Wow. That’s rare.

I’m meeting him for coffee tomorrow I’m meeting him I Yeah.

What did she ask you?

I’m meeting him for coffee tomorrow I’m meeting him I Generic stuff at first. You called it.

Her childhood

Her life

I’m meeting him for coffee tomorrow I’m meeting him I You know where it ended up tho

Where it always ends up

I’m meeting him for coffee tomorrow I’m meeting him I She wanted to know if I knew if Erica and Diego

I’m meeting him for coffee tomorrow I’m meeting him I were sleeping together

What did you say?

I’m meeting him for coffee tomorrow I’m meeting him I NOTHING. I have no idea what was going on with

I’m meeting him for coffee tomorrow I’m meeting him I those two and I object to anyone GIVING A FUCK

I’m meeting him for coffee tomorrow I’m meeting him I about that

I’m meeting him for coffee tomorrow I’m meeting him I I’m so ANNOYED.

I’m meeting him for coffee tomorrow I’m meeting him I I started to say something snide about checking the

I’m meeting him for coffee tomorrow I’m meeting him I post-mortem exam notes but then I realized how

I’m meeting him for coffee tomorrow I’m meeting him I useless that would be

I’m meeting him for coffee tomorrow I’m meeting him I not to mention invasive

I’m meeting him for coffee tomorrow I’m meeting him I She asked if I thought Erica was “worthy of

I’m meeting him for coffee tomorrow I’m meeting him I sainthood”

I’m meeting him for coffee tomorrow I’m meeting him I WTH is that supposed to mean

You know—“heroic virtue” and all that

I’m meeting him for coffee tomorrow I’m meeting him I Why do they get to decide?

Authority

Tradition

Control of the narrative

I’m meeting him for coffee tomorrow I’m meeting him I She wasn’t pious

I’m meeting him for coffee tomorrow I’m meeting him I I can’t even remember Erica talking about her faith

I’m meeting him for coffee tomorrow I’m meeting him I all that much

I’m meeting him for coffee tomorrow I’m meeting him I I think actual holiness matters much less to these

I’m meeting him for coffee tomorrow I’m meeting him I people than the condition of her hymen

I hope we can give them a little

more credit than that

You know, this investigator may

very well be on Erica’s side

I’m meeting him for coffee tomorrow I’m meeting him I Well what I said was

I’m meeting him for coffee tomorrow I’m meeting him I “I have zero doubt, even not knowing you at all,

I’m meeting him for coffee tomorrow I’m meeting him I that Erica Rios was holier than you or I could ever

I’m meeting him for coffee tomorrow I’m meeting him I hope to be.”

I’m meeting him for coffee tomorrow I’m meeting him I Put that in your pipe and smoke it, bitch

Erica is dead, and Erica is dead, and Erica is ***

From: pjdomingo@usis.edu

Date: Tue, Feb 18, 2014 at 6:08 PM

Subject: re: preliminary report on Rios case

To: benedict.gray@dioxirona.org

Dear Msgr. Gray,

In answer to your question about whether or not Erica Rios appeared to have been romantically involved with anyone, not a single person I interviewed has been able to confirm any major partnerships. People in Churango thought she and Diego Luarca were close but wouldn’t clearly label the relationship.

Not long after the meeting with Mar Ma’isa I had the opportunity to speak with Father Nicolas Erretana, Erica’s close friend and fellow faculty member at the Colegio Nepomuceno. He describes Erica Rios as one of the most moral individuals he has known. I will reach out to the other two nuns who were there and the American from the Jesuit Volunteer Corps.

I don’t think heterodoxy or love affairs are going to hold up the cause. I think the more likely source of trouble will be politics.

Erica’s family said she kept a journal, but no one seems to have been able to find it. Mar Ma’isa didn’t know either, or at least she said, “I can’t help you there.” I have a strong hunch this journal exists somewhere and contains everything we need to complete the picture of her character. I’ll keep trying.

P.J. Domingo, DCL

Universidad de San Ignacio

Faculty of Canon Law

Erica is dead, and Erica is dead, and Erica is ***

July 4, 2002

Dear Kirsten,

Erica is dead, and Happy American Independence Day! Are you adding a stars and stripes cake to your repertoire? How’s Palo Alto?

Erica is dead, and I am picturing your puzzled face upon receiving snail-mail instead of e-mail. I did this because a) no one ever does it anymore, and I want you to have received a personal letter in the mail at least once in your life (even if it’s just from your big brother), and b) because unlike emails, letters can be burned, and I order you to do that as soon as you read this. Some things just need to go up in smoke.

Erica is dead, and I went to visit Erica in Churango last month. Seeing Erica in her element brought back a lot of memories from our time at C.N. She’s so great with the kids and their parents—warm, knowledgeable, smart, kind. The visit was bittersweet. Now that I’m on the verge of ordination, I realize it’ll be harder to find time (and get permission) for trips like these.

Erica is dead, and I met a couple of people there who’ve become pretty close to Erica. One’s an engineer, Mar Ma’isa, who’s been helping with water access, housing, latrine building, and the like. She’s a woman of few words—some of them a little biting—but I can tell she already has a deep loyalty to Erica and to the Nauayi. There’s also a part-Sagradan Spanish doctor, Diego Luarca, who’s spending a year manning the clinic. Terrific guy.

Erica is dead, and Now for the bad stuff. It’s only been a month since the election, and all is chaos. Alençon is putting only European mestizos like himself in high positions. He owns half of Xirona’s financial district, as well as that luxury hotel, you’ll remember, that went up before you left for Stanford, so he already had a ton of power, and now he has more. He talks of criminalizing peaceful protest, re-criminalizing homosexuality, controlling curricula at all schools (including universities), and reducing funding for humanitarian NGOs, disaster relief, and research, all in the name of “fiscal responsibility.” He’s already trying to repress vulnerable people like the Nauayi, making noises about putting them on reservations—“dedicated lands,” he’s calling them—and not letting them use the Nauay language in public meetings or on official forms. He stereotypes low-income indios as criminals, calls intellectuals “elitist,” and openly mocks scientists. Books—actually, even words—are being banned. The editor-in-chief of The Xirona Messenger has been held without due process—no charges, no evidence, no hearing. People are speaking out less and less for fear of retribution. I think it’s only a matter of time before he institutes martial law.

Erica is dead, and I often think to myself, if he doesn’t ban travel outside the country, where could we flee? Southwest to French Polynesia? East to the Galapagos? Maybe Mexico. Certainly not Hawaii or California. You should stay away while you can (though I wouldn’t be surprised if he were being propped up by folks on your side of the Pacific).

Erica is dead, and I’m hoping it’s too soon after the election for them to start snooping through people’s letters. Text me as soon as you get this, then please burn it, lest I get “disappeared.”

Erica is dead, and I love you.

I’m meeting him for coffee tomorrow I’m meeting him I Hugs from your brother,

I’m meeting him for coffee tomorrow I’m meeting him I paragon of holiness (haha)–—

I’m meeting him for coffee tomorrow I’m meeting him I Nico

I’m meeting him for coffee tomorrow I’m meeting II

Journal of Erica Rios

January 4, 2002

Erica is dead, and Paloma tried to teach me how to make her pan de huevo today, and it was a kitchen catastrophe. First of all, I seem entirely incapable of cracking eggs without getting bits of shell in the bowl. Paloma and the other women couldn’t stop laughing at my attempts. Secondly, I think I managed to kill the yeast. Maybe the milk I warmed got too hot. Our rolls never rose, and Paloma said if we tried to bake them we’d end up with a basket of little rocks. We hate to waste food, though, so we patted them into flat rounds instead and baked them that way. They still turned out a little tough. I will be teased about this forever.

Erica is dead, and We are running low on supplies, actually, and I worry about the coming holiday. Epiphany is even more beloved among the Nauayi than Christmas. I think it’s because their old legends tell of a group of people—their ancestors—who sailed across the ocean and found a mysterious infant inside a cave. They raised the infant as one of their own, and she became their Prophetess, Naana. When the Spanish colonized the island, they made sure to supplant the story of Naana and the early Nauayi with tales of wise men following a star and finding the Christ child.

Erica is dead, and If all goes well, Mar will be back from Xirona tomorrow, and we can replenish our school supplies and food stores. The new doctor will be coming with her with equipment for the clinic. It’ll be like another Christmas.

January 5, 2002

Erica is dead, and Crayons! Mar got a donation of paper, crayons, pens, pencils, and glue in addition to the usual. Everyone’s in wonderful spirits, with all three towns looking so festive for Epiphany tomorrow, and plans for a special potluck after the mid-morning Mass. What a welcome for Dr. Luarca! He seems like a lovely person. His great-grandmother was born here, apparently, when Sagrada was still a Spanish colony, but the family moved back to Spain when the Americans took over in 1898.

Erica is dead, and Sr. Rosita asked him—perhaps a little disapprovingly?—if he had always worn his hair on the long side. It’s wavy and brown, and it makes me wish mine weren’t so straight and boring, but I didn’t find it that long. I think he’ll find it gets hot at the back of his neck in this climate.

Erica is dead, and Erica is dead, and Erica is ***

Journal of Mar Ma’isa

February 14, 2002

Erica is dead, and I HATE Valentine’s Day. Not that we pay a lot of attention to it here. But I especially hate it today because I feel like sending Sr. Rosita an anti-Valentine. I don’t know why she keeps picking on me. Last month it was the way we were storing the supplies I brought back from Xirona. Today it’s grumbling about me not taking off my work boots in the mud room. THE MUD ROOM. I was there for like FIVE minutes looking for something in my jacket pocket.

Erica is dead, and To add insult to injury I couldn’t find the stupid thing I was looking for.

Erica is dead, and I bet she’s one of those who never, ever broke the rules. I bet her school uniforms were always in compliance and she always got straight A’s. I bet she never snuck out of the house or smoked anything in high school. And I am one hundred per cent sure she’s never, ever gotten laid or even diddled herself. All of this explains why she’s so judgy. People who have always behaved perfectly can be the least empathic people on earth.

Erica is dead, and Erica is dead, and Erica is ***

Prayer Journal of Sr. Rosita Blevins

March 4, 2002

Erica is dead, and Dear Lord, I thank you for the start of another school year. For the children’s enthusiasm and their smiles. For their loving parents. For the joy of books, and learning, and games, and Mass all together. For the supplies Mar Ma’isa was given by the donor in Xirona. I thank you Lord for her, for the teachers here, the builders, Zach from JVC, and the new doctor, Diego Luarca.

Erica is dead, and He is charismatic, and I worry for the younger Sisters. Help me guard them against temptation, and to be drawn only to the charisms that serve you.

Erica is dead, and Help me keep custody of my eyes and chastity of mind.

Erica is dead, and Keep me from judging what I do not understand, especially with Mar, who is so difficult (as people to whom you give the gift of brilliance often are!).

Erica is dead, and Forgive my envy of Erica, who always seems to know what to say to the children, and always seems so happy.

Erica is dead, and Help me to remember that a soul’s beauty is what matters to you, and that our bodies are only instruments for your work.

Erica is dead, and Erica is dead, and Erica is ***

Journal of Erica Rios

March 5, 2002

Erica is dead, and Hard to believe I’ve been here a year already. I was so nervous before coming here, and now I can’t imagine being away from the kids. I feel like I know them so well, and I’m so in love with them. Some of them have grown so much taller since school ended last December.

Erica is dead, and My spoken Nauay has improved a lot from talking to the parents and everyone in the villages. Diego hears many words that have come from Spanish but gets confused when sometimes they have completely different meanings here from what he’s used to. His English is really good.

Erica is dead, and I have mixed feelings about teaching some subjects in English in school. I know it’s important for the kids to learn it well, and be comfortable using it, if they are to be as versatile as possible in the future, but I hate the colonial baggage. I suppose we’re not the only ones who have to bow to the hegemon, though. English has become the lingua franca of the developed world. To be able to use it fluently carries real power. I don’t take that for granted.

Erica is dead, and Erica is dead, and Erica is ***

Journal of Mar Ma’isa

March 31, 2002

Erica is dead, and I’m pretty sure Sr. Rosita Blevins doesn’t like the fact that I don’t always go to Mass. But honestly, can I help it if I think we made up the whole “fully human and fully divine” thing? Sorry, but there’s no lab test for divinity. I can’t just go by the word of some ancient council of old men in the year 451.

Erica is dead, and I’ll admit the Masses here are way more community-oriented than the ones at home. People actually hug each other during the Sign of Peace, as opposed to the cold nodding and waving that goes on in Xirona. Can’t risk touching the untouchables, right? GAG ME. Those people are just like the Pharisees and can’t even see it.

Erica is dead, and Each village here has an outdoor worship space under a straw roof, and Father Mo’na’lun rotates around the villages for the Saturday evening Mass, going to a different one each week. He celebrates the Sunday morning Mass at the church next to our convent in Santa Cruz.

Erica is dead, and The music’s more joyful here than anywhere I’ve been. The songs are folksy and cheerful, and there’s hand-clapping and percussion. Even the “Santo, Santo, Santo” is upbeat. We sing in three languages—Nauay, Spanish, or English, including some American favorites from the ‘80s and ‘90s thanks to a bunch of old songbooks someone donated.

Erica is dead, and Zach’s violin has been a welcome addition to the music-making, as is Diego on acoustic guitar, when we can get him. He says he dropped out of the Church a long time ago, but he’s been coming more often. I think he comes to see Erica.

Erica is dead, and I did make it to Easter Vigil—and Rosita was a little snippy about THAT too. Make up your mind, Sister! It was a beautiful service. People from all three towns were there. But someone in front of me let one rip during the Prayers of the Faithful, and that somewhat killed the mood.

Erica is dead, and Farts smell really bad. That is all.

Erica is dead, and Erica is dead, and Erica is ***

Journal of Erica Rios

April 1, 2002

Erica is dead, and I have a confession to make: I don’t like Easter. It feels almost blasphemous to admit this. What would Rosita say? It’s not Easter itself and the Resurrection that I find myself disconnected from; it’s the morbidity of Holy Week, at least as it’s practiced here. I know it’s supposed to be a remembrance of something sorrowful and terrible, but it just reminds me of how awful we’re capable of being with one another, and that scares me a lot.

Erica is dead, and I could also do without the readings during the Vigil about Pharaoh’s charioteers drowning in the Red Sea in pursuit of Moses. The poor guys were just doing their jobs.

Erica is dead, and There’s one part of Easter that I do love very much: the singing of the Exultet at the start of the Vigil. We don’t have a deacon, but Father Mo’na’lun has had a young baritone from Mirador cantor it every year for a while now. His voice, and the slow lighting of everyone’s candles in the darkened church at the start of the Vigil, enlarge my soul and make me feel like it’s shining out from me, and that everyone else’s soul is too, from them, and all our souls are touching each other in peace, connected, and all will be well.

Erica is dead, and Erica is dead, and Erica is ***

From: dmluarca@gmail.com

Date: Tuesday April 2, 2002 at 12:38 PM

Subject: Churango finalmente

To: ramon.luarca@sietepalabras.org

(1)Hola, hermano:

¿Cómo estás? Felices Pascuas (un poco tarde).

Perdí la conexión al wifi cuando salí de Xirona. De vez en cuando podemos bajar de las tierras altas y encontrar un cibercafé. Quería solo avisarte de que llegué sin problemas y he empezado el trabajo con los suministros que pude traer de Madrid y todo lo que mandaste a Xirona en enero.

Los nauayi son muy acogedores y generosos, y están bastante sanos a pesar de su pobreza y sus dificultades. El peor caso que he visto es el de un adolescente con cicatrices de tracoma.

La clínica está al lado de la escuela, que se encuentra entre los tres pueblos, Mirador, Palangana, y Santa Cruz. Quien hace las veces de enfermera en la clínica, Mona Lisa, es una mujer de unos cincuenta años, una de las parteras de Palangana que está bastante versada en temas de salud.

Una de las maestras en la escuela, Erica, ya lleva aquí un año y me ha ayudado mucho a orientarme en la vida en las montañas. Por ahora vivimos en comunidad en un antiguo convento al lado de la iglesia en Santa Cruz con tres monjas, un voluntario Americano del JVC, y una ingeniera que se llama Mar. Los aseos funcionan. Las duchas, casi nunca (usamos cubos). Están construyendo pequeñas cabañas detrás a donde esperamos mudarnos una vez que hayan terminado. La mujer que nos prepara la comida, Paloma, también lava nuestra ropa con dos otras mujeres del pueblo.

Bueno, Moncho, tengo que subir de nuevo para asegurarme de que las cabras no se hayan comido las hierbas que Mona Lisa plantó detrás de la clínica. Pusimos una cerca el otro día, pero ya sabes…

Besos a Mami, y a tu nueva chica (¿es la misma?)—

Diego

_____________________________________

(1)Hello, brother – How are you? Happy Easter (a little late). I lost wifi access when I left Xirona. Once in a while we can come down from the highlands and find an internet café. I just wanted to let you know that I got here with no problem and I’ve started working, with the supplies I was able to bring over from Madrid and everything you sent to Xirona in January. The Nauayi are very welcoming and generous, and healthy enough despite their poverty and hardships. The worst case I’ve seen is a teenager with scarring from trachoma. The clinic is beside the school, which lies among the three villages, Mirador, Palangana, and Santa Cruz. My “nurse” Mona Lisa is a woman of about fifty, a midwife from Palangana who’s pretty well-versed in health matters. One of the school teachers, Erica, has been here a year already and has helped me a lot orienting me to mountain life. For now we live in community in an old convent next to the church in Santa Cruz with three nuns, an American volunteer with the Jesuit Volunteer Corps, and an engineer named Mar. The toilets work. The showers, almost never (we use buckets). They’re building tiny cabins in back where we’re hoping to move once they’re done. The woman who prepares our meals, Paloma, does our laundry as well with two other women from the village. Well, Moncho, I have to go back up to make sure the goats haven’t eaten the herbs Mona Lisa planted behind the clinic. We put a fence up the other day, but you know that goes…Kisses to Mom, and your new girlfriend (is it still the same one?) —Diego

Erica is dead, and Erica is dead, and Erica is ***

Journal of Erica Rios

April 6, 2002

Erica is dead, and Diego asked me to come with him to make a house call in Mirador (he tries not to ask Mona Lisa to work on Saturdays and Sundays). It was at Aldo Ma’ranai’s house (one of my sixth graders). We took the jeep most of the way.

Erica is dead, and Diego was so gentle with little Malena, Aldo’s sister, who is two and a half and had been irritable that morning, tugging on her right ear. He found a way to distract her with a notepad and some crayons he had in his doctor’s bag. I had to tease him: “Are those from my classroom?!” He asked her mom (mostly in English) to hold her in her lap in a big hug and a head-hold while he looked inside her ears with a portable otoscope, first one side then the other. Malena whimpered a bit but didn’t fight. He thought one side was mildly inflamed, but he saw no fluid or pus, and the other side was clear. He gave her mother, Tiga, some medication for Malena’s pain and had me repeat the instructions in Nauay. Tiga asked if they needed antibiotics, and Diego said no, it was probably viral, but he would see Malena the next day.

Erica is dead, and As we rose to leave Tiga turned to me and asked, “Do rich people love their children? The way we do?”

Erica is dead, and I was so taken aback. My surprise must have shown on my face. I answered, “Yes, of course. They love their children very much.” I thought about her all the way home. She had not looked convinced.

Erica is dead, and Erica is dead, and Erica is ***

Prayer Journal of Sr. Rosita Blevins

April 10, 2002

Erica is dead, and Dear Blessed Virgin Mary, my mother died on this day when I was five, and though I can scarcely remember her, the pain of that loss haunts me still. I used to beg you to come to me and talk to me, the way you spoke to Bernadette, and Catherine Labouré, and the children at Fatima. I longed for visions of you and tried so hard when I was younger to be worthy of them. But it was a selfish longing—I wanted to be special enough to be chosen. That little child still lives inside me. I know I should be less self-absorbed, more humble.

Erica is dead, and I’ve tried so hard. I’ve prayed your rosary every day almost my entire life. I have never uttered a coarse word or indulged my appetites. I miss you, Blessed Mother. Please come to me someday.

Erica is dead, and Erica is dead, and Erica is ***

Journal of Mar Ma’isa

April 12, 2002

Erica is dead, and Okay, let me count slowly to ten, because that woman is driving me CRAZY. Aren’t nuns supposed to be sweet and pleasant? Ha. Not this one. What a sourpuss. Maybe she has chronic pain or something. I was having a pretty important discussion with the guys building the Tiny Cabins behind the convent, and how we might scale up for the villages, and Sr. Rosita BLEVINS comes over complaining that someone dug up some of her spuds. Yes, she crossed the yard to accuse us of POTATO THEFT. As if we didn’t have better things to do right now! I am here trying to ensure potable drinking water, build eco-friendly latrines, and showers that work, and teach classes the villagers ask for, and she thinks my guys want her fucking potatoes.

Erica is dead, and And don’t get me started on how fussy she is with meal prep when Paloma isn’t around. I can’t STAND kitchen duty with her. Let me slice the goddamn onions the way I want, for Christ’s sake! What a fucking PERFECTIONIST!

Erica is dead, and It takes all my energy not to let my potty mouth out in front of her. She would probably faint. She goes to daily Mass, says the rosary every morning, probably does some kind of penance in her cell at night. I’m sure she’s holy on the inside, or whatever, but JAY-sus Mary & Joseph, doesn’t sanctity usually help people lighten up a little?

Erica is dead, and I asked Diego how he’s so patient with people, and he just smiled and said he tries to remember that what comes out of the mouths of people we can’t stand is often “some manifestation of their deepest anxieties.” He’s probably right, but it doesn’t make me wanna smack Rosita any less.

Erica is dead, and The younger Sisters are adorable. Smiling, always trying to be helpful, never complaining. Nothing ruffles them. But there is something up with Sr. Rosita Blevins.

April 20, 2002

Erica is dead, and This has to be the hottest and wettest month of the year. YUCK. I hate it. When it rains hard enough, though, I take advantage: I put on my suit and bathe in the rain. I miss showering so much. I don’t actually mind the bucket method—I’m sure it’s less wasteful—but there’s nothing like a great shower to wash all the dirt off and feel truly clean.

Erica is dead, and The luxurious cleanliness doesn’t last. A few precious hours, then it’s back to dust and sweat and grime and the need for more pails of water to wash it all off. But I have to say the rainy season has its blessings, and being able to take a shower outdoors once in a while is one of them.

Erica is dead, and Erica is dead, and Erica is ***

Journal of Erica Rios

May 7, 2002

Erica is dead, and Today one of the fifth graders, Jemima, was in our tiny library leafing through Picture Book of Saints. I grew up with that book. This edition must have been over twenty years out of date. I’m pretty sure it was below her reading level. I asked her if she liked it.

Erica is dead, and “All the girls are nuns,” she said. “Except Saint Agnes and Saint Barbara. But they didn’t have nuns back then.”

Erica is dead, and She turned a few more pages.

Erica is dead, and “And all the boys are priests. Can only priests and nuns be saints?”

Erica is dead, and I had to think hard about how to answer, because the answer is NO of course, but I didn’t have a great explanation for the predominance of religion in the official communion of saints.

Erica is dead, and I said, “No, anyone can be a saint. It’s just that it’s often easier to hear news about priests and nuns leading holy lives than it is to know about people who aren’t priests and nuns.” I almost rolled my eyes at myself.

Erica is dead, and Jemima closed the book then and held it on the table so she could rest her chin on the top edge of it. “What makes a life holy?”

Erica is dead, and I cannot now remember exactly what I said. Something about choosing love, and always moving toward it and not away from it. Jemima is curious and astute, and you always know when you’re falling a bit short with her. She said nothing—just put the book back on the shelf and wished me a good evening.

May 18, 2002

Erica is dead, and Paloma knows I love her black rice with peas, and she made me an extra large batch for my birthday. It was SO GOOD.

Erica is dead, and I was surrounded by love yesterday and today. The students yesterday made cards and a paper crown for me and put on a hilarious skit featuring one of the younger students as “Mar” (who is very short) and a boy sitting on another boy’s shoulders as “Zach” (who is 6’4”). They had borrowed Zach’s signature baseball cap for the occasion. So funny.

Erica is dead, and The Sisters made me a gorgeous quilt with a giant moon in one corner shining beams of light across an ocean toward a tiny boat in the opposite corner with a woman inside it rowing. Zach made me a beautiful wooden box with a secret compartment, and Mar crocheted me an adorable little owl with a pointy hat. Diego grew me a red hibiscus in a pot with some coaching from Sister Marilu and copied out a Neruda poem for me in calligraphy (where on earth did he find a calligraphy pen?). He graciously gave Marilu all the credit for the flower. Zach taught him a little saying we have here at the convent: “Don’t mess with the nuns, ‘coz nuns don’t mess around.”

Erica is dead, and This might be selfish, but I love these moments so much. I miss my family in Xirona, but honestly I don’t know what I’ll do when the time comes to leave this one. They’re my soul family.

June 1, 2002

Erica is dead, and Mar, Zach, and I got up really early, threw on some work boots, and took the jeep down to Manu’s today to learn how to make cheese from carabao milk. Palangana, where he lives, is a basin of taro fields bordered by green forests whose treetops look like fractals from above, a swirl of leaves and branches in repetitive patterns that arise and arise again as far as the eye can see. The closer we draw, the less orderly the patterns become. The canopy shows some break-away flourishes; the ends of branches rebel, reach for sunlight and for one another, secretly exuberant at being alive.

Erica is dead, and We emerged from the forest below Santa Cruz and parked the jeep at the edge of Manu’s field. Zach had the advantage over us, trudging through the grasses with his long, lanky legs. The beast we approached looked majestic with its curved horns stark against the swathes of color ahead—bluish mountains in the distance, rows of green trees, and the golden field in the foreground. Carabao aren’t native to Sagrada, but the Spanish brought some over from Guam in colonial times. (They’re not native to Guam either; they were at some point brought over there from the Philippines.)

Erica is dead, and Manu said this animal could sometimes get nervous with strangers, so he did the milking himself. I was relieved—I’d never milked a cow or any kind of large animal before, and I was terrified it would get annoyed at my ineptitude and kick me. And the way Manu was yanking on her udders—I think I would have been much less assertive!

Erica is dead, and We heated the milk in a wide pot over some hot coals outdoors. I used to imagine the countryside as quiet, but we were surrounded by birdsong while we worked, and cooled by a pleasant breeze. I’m going to miss this when I have to go back to cooking in a city kitchen.

Erica is dead, and Manu warned us to keep the milk “only as warm as your own blood” and not to let it come to a boil. After about fifteen minutes of simmering we curdled it with calamansi fresh off the bush and added some coarse salt. Then we took it off the heat and let it sit for a while. We went to one of the banana trees nearby, chopped off a giant leaf, washed it, and cut it into rectangular pieces. We strained the milk and solids over cheesecloth and a wicker strainer. It looked just like cottage cheese! We wrapped this up in the cheese cloth and let the whey drain a while more, then packed the cheese into the banana leaves.

Erica is dead, and Manu’s wife, Ita, made rolls out of water, yeast, carabao milk, melted butter, egg, flour, sugar, and salt. She’s such an expert that she doesn’t need measurements. She can just feel the right amounts. She can sense, too, when she has kneaded the dough enough. Judging by my earlier experience with Paloma’s pan de huevo, I think I would be a disaster at bread-making. But I would love to be able to trust in feeling over seeing, the way she does, and have that kind of certainty.

Erica is dead, and When the rolls were ready we tried some of the cheese on them along with some guava jam we had brought for Manu and Ita that the nuns had made. The cheese was tart at first, but rich and creamy a few seconds after; the bread was pillowy and fragrant; and the guava jam added a sweet note that made every bite perfect. I don’t think I’ve ever had anything more delicious, comforting, or satisfying in my life.

Erica is dead, and I wish Diego could have come. There was already a queue at the clinic by the time we left this morning.

June 4, 2002

Erica is dead, and Sometimes he visits me when school lets out. My heart leaps with happiness at the sight of him coming over from the clinic. I think people are starting to notice.

Erica is dead, and Erica is dead, and Erica is ***

Prayer Journal of Rosita Blevins

June 9, 2002

Erica is dead, and I see the way they look at each other and I long to know what that’s like. To be so dear to someone. How can they be so self-absorbed—yes, selfish, people in love are so selfish! But they are also generous, and the townspeople love them.

Erica is dead, and Why is knowing I am dear to you, oh God, not enough?

Erica is dead, and Dear Lord, this jealousy is a thorn. Please take it from me, and forgive my sin.

Erica is dead, and Erica is dead, and Erica is ***

Journal of Erica Rios

June 10, 2002

Erica is dead, and It looks like Jesús Alençon has won, by a very slim margin. I am in complete shock. How is this possible, when every adult in this country is required by law to vote? I cannot believe a majority of this populace wants him as president. No one I know would have voted for him.

Erica is dead, and This is very, very bad news for Sagrada. I’m so depressed, and the people here are scared.

June 11, 2002

Erica is dead, and I stayed up late last night writing about the election. Wondering if I should send it to Lina as an op-ed. Maybe her paper would be willing to publish it anonymously. But what would be the point?

June 18, 2002

NICO IS HERE!!!!!!!!!!

June 23, 2002

Erica is dead, and We had a bonfire and barbecue today to celebrate tomorrow’s feast of St. John the Baptist. I love festive occasions at the parish. The five of us—Nico, Mar, Diego, Zach, and I—played a rather tame drinking game tonight after all the villagers went home and the nuns went to bed. We spun an empty soda bottle, and whoever it ended up pointing to would have to either answer a question drawn from a pile (created by Nico) or take a swig of whatever drink was in hand. When Diego got “What do you miss from the outside world,” he said, “Bookshops.” Everyone made commiserating sounds, and Nico clinked bottles with him. Then people offered their own answers. Nico said, “My mother’s washing machine.” I’m such a predictable bore—I said chocolate. Zach said snow and the double-decker bacon cheeseburger with crispy fried onions at some pub in Boston. Mar made everyone laugh with, “my high-pressure spray-by-hand bidet!”

Erica is dead, and It didn’t take long for us to abandon the bottle spinning entirely and just go through the pile of questions. Who, alive or dead, would you invite to a dinner party? (Henry VIII? Really Zach?) What was your most embarrassing moment? What three things do you want to experience or accomplish before you die? There was one that was pretty dark: if you had the power to bring about world peace by secretly killing one person of your choosing, would you do it? The only one who didn’t pause over that one, and have a lip-biting moment, was Mar. “Hell yeah,” she said.

Erica is dead, and “Who would you kill?” Diego asked.

Erica is dead, and For a moment there was a tense silence, then a mischievous grin spread over Zach’s face. “Rosita,” he said. “Am I right?”

Erica is dead, and Mar looked at him, startled for a second, to see if he was serious. We’ve all felt the tension between Mar and Rosita, for a good while, but no one has said anything, till now. When she saw the grin, she sputtered a bit, trying to suppress a chuckle, then gave in to a fit of raucous laughter that spread to the rest of us.

Erica is dead, and It was a little mean. But we all needed that.

June 28, 2002

Erica is dead, and I’ve been so blue since Nico left. It was almost like old times when he was here – joking around the way we used to in the faculty lounge, staying up late into the night talking, playing with the kids. He and Diego really got along. Even Mar let her hair down a bit (such as it is) while Nico was here.

Erica is dead, and I don’t know what I would do without the Sisters, Mar, Zach, and Diego. And the kids. Our sweet, wonderful, smiling kids. They keep me going.

Erica is dead, and Erica is dead, and Erica is ***

The View from the Ground

Anonymous

The Xirona Messenger

July 1, 2002

Erica is dead, and We have a new president. For our country, a new chapter is unfolding. My plea is for a chapter characterized by respect for all people and protection of the dignity and freedoms of every human being on our soil, whether resident or visitor, wealthy or poor.

Erica is dead, and On the campaign trail, Jesús Efraín Alençon promised to lower crime rates by militarizing the Polisya Nasyonal, imposing control measures such as curfews (which have been proven ineffective) and increased patrols, and implementing harsher penalties. He accused advocates for low-income groups of fomenting communism. He made disparaging jokes about women, disabled individuals, university professors, and indigenous people. His idea of peace appeared to be a society in which no one disagreed—with him, especially. He has ranted against having a free press, the inconvenience of honoring people’s civil rights, and what he labels the “laziness” of the working class. That anyone thought these attitudes would benefit our country mystifies me.

Erica is dead, and Now that I am living and working among some of the most disenfranchised people in our nation—people who have called this land home longer than anyone—what I see more and more from our struggling communities, whose people are hard-working and industrious and about as caring toward neighbors and strangers as any people I’ve ever met, is a country where the wealthy would prefer to forget about the poor, where mestizos cannot conceive of the talent and importance of so-called indios, and where those with power and privilege feel entitled to disempower others to keep what they have. I find my impressions disheartening in a country in which 88% of the population identifies as Christian, 82% as Catholic—believers in the Gospel of Christ, which unambiguously asks followers to serve and show compassion toward the least advantaged, most marginalized among us.

Erica is dead, and President Alençon calls himself a man of faith. He goes to Mass every Sunday with his wife and children. I can only hope that his faith is true. I pray that a spirit of mercy pervades his administration, that he be motivated by a love for our people rather than an attraction for power and personal gain. Most of all I pray that he have the personal and moral courage to want a populace that can think and push back, that can debate and be creative with alternative ideas, that is healthy and knowledgeable, that strives to uplift one another and respect others’ freedom to build the lives they want for themselves, and that enjoys a wealth of opportunities to construct those lives. We would do well to remember the words of Archbishop Oscar Romero of El Salvador: “Peace is not the silent result of violent repression. Peace is the generous, tranquil contribution of all to the good of all.”

Erica is dead, and These values and priorities require maturity, self-respect, and respect for all others regardless of color or class, but with them, even a small nation can be a great one.

Erica is dead, and Erica is dead, and Erica is ***

Journal of Erica Rios

July 7, 2002

Erica is dead, and It’s rare to get phone calls here in Santa Cruz—the only phones are in the rectory and a mile downhill in Palangana—but Lina managed to get through to me just before dinner. She says she had been trying all afternoon, but none of us was in the rectory until it was time for meal prep. I asked her if everything was okay, but I already had a sick feeling in my chest, especially after we finished with small talk and I noticed her tone: unnaturally cheerful. “You know,” she said, “the Feds are really upset we printed that anonymous op-ed that landed on our doorstep last month.”

Erica is dead, and “Are they? I, um, I haven’t had a chance to read it.”

Erica is dead, and “These men in suits practically broke down the door demanding to talk to my boss. Can you believe that?”

Erica is dead, and “Oh wow. That sounds scary…”

Erica is dead, and “Do you know who might have written something like that?” Lina continued. I could practically see her winking at me over the phone line.

Erica is dead, and “Um, no, I have no idea.” I winced at the lie.

Erica is dead, and “It sounded like someone who’s doing some charity work. Inner city maybe.”

Erica is dead, and “Could be. Your editor didn’t know?”

Erica is dead, and “He said it had just been left in the mail room. The Suits demanded to have the hard copy and envelope turned over to them but my editor said we had already shredded it. ‘Per the President’s orders to curb wastefulness,’ he said to them. They were pissed!”

Erica is dead, and We changed the subject and pretended to gossip about Lina’s love life (which will forever be more exciting than mine). The phone call was Lina’s way of warning me. I’m worried they’ll shut down the paper, and she’ll lose her job. I’m starting to worry about us here, too. I hate living with this unease now, every day, an undercurrent that colors everything we think and do.

August 10, 2002

Erica is dead, and I was awakened by the sound of knocking on someone else’s cabin door. I opened my front door a crack and saw a figure taking his fist to Diego’s cabin. Our Tiny Cabins are all in a row behind the convent: mine closest to the convent garden, then Mar’s, Zach’s and Diego’s. A light went on inside his and he opened the door. I then saw it was Arnu. I couldn’t hear exactly what they were saying, but Arnu was clearly upset, occasionally gesturing toward the square in front of the church, where I saw he had parked his truck.

Erica is dead, and His wife was in labor, unexpectedly. By the time he and Diego jogged by, Mar and Zach had woken up too. We all got dressed, picked up our flashlights, and followed in their footsteps toward the clinic.

Erica is dead, and Diego paused in the square, turned around, and put a hand on my elbow. “Mona Lisa is in Briñas visiting her aunt. Will you ask Rosita to come?” Rosita had been a nurse midwife before becoming a nun. I ran back to the convent. The door was locked. I lifted the statue of the Virgin Mary near the front entrance and looked for the key in a little depression below her feet.

Erica is dead, and Even though we used to live in the convent in the rooms on the second floor, I find the downstairs a little unnerving at night. I turned on some lights and went down the corridor to Rositas’s room. She looked sleepy and irritated when she opened the door.

Erica is dead, and “Annie’s in labor,” I said.

Erica is dead, and She rifled through the bottom of her armoire and pulled out a go-bag of sorts. “We might need this,” she said, handing me the bag. She threw on a robe and shoes. “No time for wimples,” she said.

Erica is dead, and When we got to the clinic, Mar and Zach were outside on the front stoop. Annie was moaning on the exam room table, and Arnu was at her side with his arm around her.

Erica is dead, and “I’ll wait with the others,” I said, but Rosita stopped me. “Sit over there in case we need a hand.”

Erica is dead, and “She’s already crowning,” Diego said.

Erica is dead, and Rosita put on some gloves. Diego stepped aside. Rosita put a hand over the visible part of the baby’s head, looked into Annie’s eyes, and spoke to her in Nauay.

Erica is dead, and “Okay, my dear, don’t push. All right? Look at me sweetheart. Take a deep breath. Do not push. Dr. Luarca is going to hold your right leg and Arnu will hold the left one, okay?”

Erica is dead, and Annie started sobbing. “I need to push!” Arnu murmured softly into her ear, trying to comfort her.

Erica is dead, and “No, sweetheart, don’t push,” Rosita said. “You can do this. Breathe with me, like you’re blowing out a candle. We’ll do it together.”

Erica is dead, and Rosita had her right hand below and her left hand above where she expected the baby’s head to emerge, her fingertips gently guarding the perineum against tearing. The baby’s head came out. “Okay Annie, deep breath, and give me one push.” Annie moaned and pushed with all her might. Beads of sweat dotted her temples. Rosita moved the head downward with her hands, then the shoulders emerged, first the top shoulder, then the bottom one. The next moment the baby was out. A girl. She took her by her neck and tiny feet and placed her on Annie’s belly.

Erica is dead, and The baby’s color was dusky. Diego and Rosita exchanged a look. “Need to stim,” he said.

She handed him a towel, and he began to rub the baby’s body with it. First a whimper, then a cry. After a minute of crying that felt like an hour, the baby turned pink. There were tears in Annie’s and Arnu’s eyes, and smiles on their faces.

Erica is dead, and I have never seen anything so wondrous.

Erica is dead, and Afterward, when things had settled down, Zach and Mar came in to congratulate Annie and Arnu. Diego gave me a big hug for absolutely no reason, and I hugged him tightly back. Mar approached Rosita and said, “You were magnificent. Thank you for what you did.” Rosita looked like she didn’t know what to say. With his usual perceptive timing, Zach piped up, “Don’t mess with nuns…” and Diego replied, grinning, “Because nuns don’t mess around.”

Erica is dead, and Zach asked Annie, “What’s her name going to be?”

Erica is dead, and Annie looked at Arnu, and they smiled at each other.

Erica is dead, and “Rose.”

Erica is dead, and I looked at the three of them and thought of the world outside the clinic walls. Dawn was breaking, pale light slowly bringing color back to the convent, the church square, our little school, the clinic. A rooster crowed. A breeze carried the smoky smell of the first breakfast of the day being prepared. Little Rose yawned. For now, here in this unknown place, there was only joy, and abundant love; here in our arms, the hope of the world

August 15, 2002

Erica is dead, and Sometimes when I pray, I feel I’m going outside of myself, yet also very much inward.

Erica is dead, and I know the Blessed Virgin is here with me. I feel such comfort in my heart, a warmth behind my breastbone. I pour out my thoughts to her. She knows all my secrets.

Erica is dead, and I see us from above, two friends walking in the convent garden, or praying together in the chapel.

Erica is dead, and I float higher, and I see how small we are. I see the villagers—some are sweeping their front stoops, others caring for sick relatives, men hammering and carrying beams of wood, children playing. A spark of light dwells inside each person.

Erica is dead, and I go as high as the clouds, higher than the end of the atmosphere. We are points of light on the planet. I reach out, and I can feel, almost touch, our warmth.

Erica is dead, and I have no vocabulary, no grammar, for what I see, what I hope, what I know.

September 8, 2002

Erica is dead, and Today, the day we celebrate the Virgin Mary’s birthday, we went to Mirador for Baby Rose’s baptism. The whole town gathered in the open-air chapel. Father Mo’na’lun was beaming. Zach brought his violin, and Diego his guitar, and the service opened with the most uplifting rendition of “Sing a New Song” I’ve ever experienced (with the middle verse in Nauay). Everyone sang. Everyone was smiling, happy. Little Rose slept through the whole thing.

September 24, 2002

Erica is dead, and Jemima was in the library again today looking for something to read. She pulled a book off the shelf that Sr. Rosita had recommended. It had a light pink dust jacket and a drawing of a little girl on the front. “The Little Flower by Mary Fabyan Windeatt,” I read. It was a children’s biography of St. Thérèse of Lisieux. “I remember reading that as a girl.”

Erica is dead, and “Did you like it?”

Erica is dead, and “I think so. It’s been a very long time. But I remember thinking she was a little too scrupulous.”

Erica is dead, and “Scrupulous?”

Erica is dead, and “Too hard on herself. About her faults.”

Erica is dead, and “Saints have faults?”Erica is dead, and

Erica is dead, and “Definitely!”

Erica is dead, and Jemima ran her finger along a row of books. We relied on donations, so the collection was a bit haphazard, and there weren’t enough books to arrange by genre. Black Beauty by Anna Sewell sat beside Where the Sidewalk Ends by Shel Silverstein.

Erica is dead, and “What was your favorite book growing up?” she asked me.

Erica is dead, and “That’s easy,” I said. “Tuck Everlasting by Natalie Babbitt. It’s about a magic fountain that can make people who drink from it live forever. A family drinks from it by mistake, and they meet a young girl who finds out about it but hasn’t drunk from it.”

Erica is dead, and “Do we have that book?”

Erica is dead, and Our little library doesn’t have it, but I offered to loan her my copy. I carry it with me whenever I’m away from home for a while, because the writing is so beautiful, and it comforts me.

Erica is dead, and Before leaving, Jemima turned to me from the doorway. “Would you drink from it? The spring of eternal life? If you could?”

Erica is dead, and I thought for a minute. It wasn’t such an easy question. “I’m not sure. I’d definitely be tempted to. But I think—no. I hope I’d be brave enough not to.”

Erica is dead, and “Why is it brave?”

Erica is dead, and “Because not having enough time can be scary. People always want more.”

Erica is dead, and Jemima frowned and pursed her lips, thinking.

Erica is dead, and “I think it’s brave to have to keep going and live and live and live,” she said.

Erica is dead, and She wasn’t wrong.

Erica is dead, and Erica is dead, and Erica is ***

Prayer Journal of Sr. Rosita Blevins

October 10, 2002

Erica is dead, and Lord, the truth is, I want to know you, but I do not. I search and reach and pray and weep, but I feel I keep missing the hem I am reaching out to touch. My faith is strung over a hollow container and I can make no sound with it.

Erica is dead, and What I’ve come to realize is everyone around me, even the one I hate, is a saint, and I am not. I could ask you to make me holy, but deep down I know I want it for the glory of holiness, not for you. Terrible, terrible! I am jealous, so jealous, of the goodness I see. They’re not white sepulchres like me. Oh God, clean me up. Clear my mind, clear my soul. I am so tired of my own rot.

Erica is dead, and Erica is dead, and Erica is ***

Journal of Mar Ma’isa

October 31, 2002

Erica is dead, and Well, this is MY favorite holiday. I love all things creepy and spooky. Ghost stories, horror novels, costumes. Halloween’s not really a thing up here, understandably. All Souls’ Day though? Huge. I overheard some of the women talking about what they were bringing to the burial ground for their family picnics. For once I will join the others and tag along on a social outing. I love a good cemetery picnic.

Erica is dead, and I’m going to curl up with a nice, scary book (I did remember to bring a few old favorites) to RELAX and forget that this administration has arrested and jailed about a dozen journalists and writers at this point. Pretty soon the “disappearing” will begin. My Filipino grandfather still remembers the cloud of foreboding that hung over people’s lives every day in the ‘70s where he worked in Zamboanga. It’s exhausting to feel like you have to hold your breath all the time to keep your heart from exploding out of your chest with anxiety.

November 2, 2002

Erica is dead, and How is it we can be around dead people and be so joyful? I usually hate social occasions, but the cemetery outing was a blast! Everyone was there—the Sisters, Father Mo’na’lun, Erica, Diego, Zach, Maria, Tiga, Paloma, the guys from the construction sites, so many kids and their families. I must have eaten four or five empanadas. It was great just to listen to folks “updating” their ancestors. Some kid’s goat went missing, and he had to go door to door looking for it (luckily no one had slaughtered and made stew out of it). Someone else’s rooster keeps trying to get with his neighbor’s hens. All the kids, apparently, are stellar in school (I should ask Erica about that). No one talked about the government (maybe out of fear of spies, but mostly wanting to avoid stress, I think). We just wanted to tell stories about our little lives and be allowed to continue on in peace.

Erica is dead, and Erica is dead, and Erica is ***

Postcard to Ramon Luarca, November 8, 2002

¿Serás mi padrino si me caso con ella? —Diego(2)

_____________________________________

(2)Will you be my best man if I marry her? —Diego

Erica is dead, and Erica is dead, and Erica is ***

Journal of Erica Rios

November 17, 2002

Erica is dead, and Sometimes the things that affect us most deeply, that in fact occupy every waking thought, are the things we can’t write about. Will never write about.

November 28, 2002

Erica is dead, and It’s American Thanksgiving, so we cooked Zach a special dinner. Sr. Teresa did a little research for us as to how to make the meal Thanksgiving-like without actual traditional Thanksgiving foods. We made roast chicken instead of roast turkey, Paloma’s black rice with peas, candied purple yams from Sr. Rosita’s garden, green beans topped with crispy onions, and Diego’s almond cake. (I can’t believe he’d had the foresight to bring a bag of ground almonds with him from Spain, along with a few other food items that aren’t easy to get here). A rare treat! It was also a farewell meal for Zach because he’s going back to the States on the first of December. We’re all going to miss his kindness, his eagerness to help, the way he listens with so much presence and understands people right away. Knowing there are young men like him out in the world gives me hope.

Erica is dead, and Erica is dead, and Erica is ***

Prayer Journal of Sr. Rosita Blevins

December 1, 2002

Erica is dead, and Lord, help me understand. What did I see in the chapel yesterday?

Erica is dead, and Erica, falling to her knees. Something like a glow around her. Was I imagining it?

Erica is dead, and Then she was nodding at the statue of you and your Sacred Heart.

Erica is dead, and Were you speaking to her?

Erica is dead, and She closed her eyes and didn’t move for an eternity. I have seen her pray before. This was something more than prayer. I believe you gave her the gift of ecstasy.

Erica is dead, and Will I forever be a Martha, rebuffed by you, having to watch someone else earn your favor? Speak to me too, Lord. Let me near you.

Erica is dead, and Erica is dead, and Erica is ***

Journal of Erica Rios

December 24-25, 2002

Erica is dead, and Christmas Eve, my favorite! We had the last Rooster Mass at five a.m. this morning. Then in the evening, a breathtaking candlelight procession through Santa Cruz with the statues of Mary, Joseph, and the donkey. We had a moment of hilarity at the start when we couldn’t find the donkey, and Mar kept saying, “My ass! Where’s my ass?”

Erica is dead, and After the eight p.m. Mass we had Noche Buena in the rectory. Paloma and her family came. What a feast! Lechón, bacalao with tomatoes, olives, and capers (the veggies were from among our canned goods, but delicious nevertheless), fresh spring rolls stuffed with hearts of palm, fried sweet plantains, and Paloma’s famous black rice. Coconut flan and butter cake for dessert.

Erica is dead, and Sisters Marilu and Teresa treated us to a carol sing-along at the beat-up old piano, then tried to sight-read, a tempo, a four-hand arrangement of “Sleigh Ride” (I’ve always thought it funny the way that song’s so popular at Christmastime in this tropical climate. A legacy of American rule!) They hit so many wrong notes it became a goal to completely screw it up as much as possible. We were all in stitches.

Erica is dead, and Diego walked me back to my Tiny Cabin at around one in the morning. The stars were so bright overhead, like diamonds of different sizes studding the sky.

Erica is dead, and He kissed me good night at the door.

Erica is dead, and Erica is dead, and Erica is ***

From: rblevins@SMQM.org

Date: Monday December 2, 2002 at 11:57 PM

Subject: Xirona Messenger Op-Ed

To: reports@nbi.gov.ns

Erica is dead, and I know who wrote the op-ed against President Alençon. Is that still being investigated?

Erica is dead, and Erica is dead, and Erica is ***

Menu for the Annual Correspondents’ Dinner

Hotel Yun Na’lun

an Alençon Group hotel

December 27, 2002

Erica is dead, and Erica is dead, and Lobster Bisque

Erica is dead, and Erica is dead, and Erica is de*

Erica is dead, and Erica is dead, and Calamansi Sorbet

Erica is dead, and Erica is dead, and Erica is d*

Erica is dead, and Palm heart, lump crab, and pomelo over mixed greens

Erica is dead, and Erica is dead, with green mandarin vinaigrette

Erica is dead, and Erica is dead, and Erica is de *

Erica is dead, andBlack pepper crusted Wagyu beef tournedos with Bearnaise sauce

Erica is dead, and Erica is dead, and Erica is d or

Erica is dead, and Erica is dead, Miso-glazed Chilean Sea Bass

Erica is dead, and Erica is dead, and Erica is deor

Erica is dead, and Simmered chicken in ginger-infused broth with young coconut

Erica is dead, and Above served with adlai rice, baby carrots, and haricots verts.

Erica is dead, and Erica is dead, and Erica is de *

Erica is dead, and Erica is dead, and Erica iMarjolaine

Erica is dead, and Erica is dead, and Erica is deor

Erica is dead, and Erica is dead, and Blood Orange Tart

Erica is dead, and Erica is dead, and Erica is de *

Erica is dead, and Erica is dead, and Erica Coffee or tea

Erica is dead, and Erica is dead, and Erica is ***

Death in Churango

by Carolina Nuñez

The Xirona Messenger

December 28, 2002

Erica is dead, and BREAKING. The bodies of three NGO workers were discovered early this morning at the north end of the Churango Pass. Erica Rios, Dr. Diego Luarca, and Sr. Rosita Blevins of the Sisters of Mary Queen of Missions were shot by unknown assailants as they were driving back from the nearby town of Salvación at around ten p.m. last night. A military truck carrying armed men dressed in camouflage was seen in the area around the time of the killing.

Erica is dead, and The bodies are being held at the Santa María funeral home in Salvación, where post-mortem examinations are under way. It is unclear whether full autopsies will be conducted. The families of the victims have been notified.

I’m meeting him for coffee tomorrow I’m meeti III

I’m meeting him for coffee tomorro Sat, Oct 11, 2025 at 12:57 PM

Hi, Mar. Diocese permitted the trip

after all. Just landed in Rome.

Are you here too?

I’m meeting him for coffee tomorrow I’m meeting him I Yes! You made it!

You too! I was hoping you would.

Am at baggage claim. Been

traveling for two days. Need a shower

and nap but wanna grab dinner later?

I’m meeting him for coffee tomorrow I’m meeting him I Linguini’s on me. Text me when you

I’m meeting him for coffee tomorrow I’m meeting him I wake up.

Erica is dead, and Erica is dead, and Erica is ***

Rome, October 11, 2025

Erica is dead, and “You’re a sight for sore eyes!”

Erica is dead, and Mar hugged Nico before they sat down at an outdoor table at the Antica Osteria Brighella. He laid his knapsack on the ground under the table, placing one of his feet through the arm straps so he would feel a tug if anyone tried to take it.

Erica is dead, and “I just woke up,” Nico said.

Erica is dead, and “Same! Slept for hours. Now I’m starving. I hate jet lag. I gave myself a couple of days to adjust before we actually had to be anywhere, but I think I’m gonna need a week.”

Erica is dead, and “What time is it in Palo Alto?”

Erica is dead, and “Around 11 a.m. You have a sister there, right?”

Erica is dead, and Nico nodded. “Kirsten. She fell in love with a California dude. I flew there to marry them. Nice guy. Reminded me a little of…”

Erica is dead, and Mar fiddled with her knife, then finished his sentence for him. “Diego.”

Erica is dead, and “Yeah.”

Erica is dead, and Nico ordered cacio e pepe, and Mar ordered mezze maniche all’amatriciana and a half bottle of white wine. They had to observe a moment of silence for their respective first bites. When the flavors hit her tongue—bright tomato, porky guanciale, a slight kick from red pepper flakes—Mar closed her eyes and shook her head.

Erica is dead, and “They know how to do it here.”

Erica is dead, and Nico nodded, savoring his own bite of spaghettoni. “The hype is well deserved.”

They caught up over recent events in their lives while the pasta on their plates disappeared bite by bite. Neither of them wanted to bring up Churango. More than twenty years had passed. But the ceremony was tomorrow, and their minds were a barrage of memories and questions. After a lull in the conversation, Mar saw the look in Nico’s eye that said, “We need to talk about it.”

Erica is dead, and Mar said, “Dessert first. I need my tiramisu.”

Erica is dead, and When they had put in the order and drunk the last of the wine, Mar began, unprompted.

Erica is dead, and “You know, that night in Santa Cruz, the night they died, was one of the worst nights of my life. Marilu and Teresa and I were up past midnight fretting. We just knew. We had a feeling something was wrong. We finally went to bed, but at dawn Arnu came banging on my cabin door, crying, saying he had seen some bodies lying in the Pass driving his truck up from Salvación. He was so scared. We went back down in his truck to look, but by then they’d been taken away to the funeral home. We drove there to try to figure out what was happening but there were armed guards at the door. I didn’t want us all to be another target for them. We sent word to the villagers to take food and water and go up to the caves in Mirador.”

Erica is dead, and “The guerrilla caves?”

Erica is dead, and “Yes, those. A lot of those guys had family in the villages. A couple of them even ‘attended’ little Rose’s baptism, from a distance, hidden in the forest. We trusted them more than Alençon’s thugs. They even sent some guns down for us girls to use. And replacement potatoes! The sisters and I stayed at the convent in Santa Cruz. Zach had already gone back to the States by then. I figured if the army wanted to massacre three spinsters in a holy place, they could come and do it. After a few days, nothing had happened. Alençon had made his example. I kept fantasizing that it had all been a mistake, that we’d see the three of them coming back up to Santa Cruz on foot and have a triumphant reunion. I even prayed for it. Me! But of course, that was stupid. Silly denial and wishful thinking. It was hopeless. We sent word to the villagers for them to come home. You know the rest. Eight years of Alençon, the Generals’ Coup, the Americans bailing him out and flying him to American Samoa. Once he was gone and the travel ban was lifted, I found that job in California and left Sagrada behind for good.”

Erica is dead, and “I was completely bummed when you left.” Nico took a sip of his espresso. “Did you see the articles that came out after the Generals’ Coup? The ones that pieced together a reconstruction of what happened to them?”

Erica is dead, and Mar shook her head.

Erica is dead, and “They said it looked like Rosita died first, jumping in front of Erica when the gunmen took aim.”

Erica is dead, and “Weirdly on-brand for her.”

Erica is dead, and They said little more about Churango at dinner. Afterward they took a long walk along the Tiber and marveled at the view of St. Peter’s from the Ponte Sant’Angelo. So many souls had lived and died here over thousands of years. The basilica’s reflection glittered in the water. Illuminated against the night sky, the great edifice seemed to say I’m here for you; come to me. It really did look eternal from where they stood, immovable, and somehow, hopeful.

Erica is dead, and “I have something for you,” Nico said.

Erica is dead, and “Oh?”

Erica is dead, and “It’s temporary, though. The person who had it wants it back. She digitized it before I left in case my plane crashed or something.”

Erica is dead, and He pulled a soft, leather-bound volume out of his bag. The cover was embossed with a geometric design resembling a mandala. Mar recognized it at once. When she opened it and saw the familiar penmanship on the pages, tears came to her eyes.

Erica is dead, and “How did you…?”

Erica is dead, and “Jemima. She’s had it all these years. Erica really made a difference in her life. She went to Erica’s cabin and took it after Erica died. She loaned it to me a couple of months ago when she saw the press about the ceremony. I asked if I could let you borrow it.”

Erica is dead, and Mar hadn’t cried about Erica, even when Erica was killed. Even at the funeral. She felt anger and dismay, but no tears came. Now she broke down and sobbed, and Nico took her into a big bear hug and held her till the tears stopped.

Erica is dead, and Mar pulled away to wipe her face, then ran her hand over the journal cover. “That canon lawyer lady was itching to read this.”

Erica is dead, and Nico shrugged. “In the end she didn’t need it. How do you piece together a human being from fragments of text?”

Erica is dead, and “And decide if she’s holy or not,” Mar added, with a hint of bitterness.
Erica is dead, and“Everyone’s holy,” Nico said.

Erica is dead, and Erica is dead, and Erica is ***

Journal of Mar Ma’isa

Sunday, October 12, 2025

Erica is dead, and I just stayed up half the night reading Erica’s journal and crying my eyes out. I couldn’t stop crying. Twenty years of tears. My eyes are so swollen I can barely recognize myself. I look even more toad-like than ever.

Erica is dead, and It should not have happened. They shouldn’t have been taken from us like that. They had so much to give, so much light to shine. Even Rosita, if she could have just had faith in herself and relaxed.

I’m so angry at that awful man. At the death squad, for obeying him. At people who are so small, they need control and violence to prove how big they are.

Erica is dead, and I’m so angry at myself, for not telling Erica and Diego how much I loved them.

Erica is dead, and I’m upset that we don’t see, we can’t see, where our love goes. I know theirs made a difference to at least some of those kids. To the villagers who knew them. Does that matter, in the patchwork of unsolvable equations we call human existence, when there will always be so much pain in the world no matter where we go?

Erica is dead, and I guess that’s why people created these ceremonies. When we feel unmoored, when we’re lost, we need beams of light. Today the world will have another. The bells will ring just for her.

Erica is dead, and Okay, Erica. I’ll keep rowing. I’ll believe you’re there, paddling beside me. I’ll break ordinary bread and see a universe of meaning in it. I’ll believe that choosing love, no matter how many times we get smacked down, even if they kill us, is the only way.

Erica is dead, and Erica, don’t leave me. I can’t do this alone.

Erica is dead, and Saint Erica Rios. Pray for us.