Small Lies

Natalia Corres
4 min readOct 21, 2021
Pexels

I needed to think. That meant finding a cemetery. I think better in the quiet of a graveyard. And I know I will be alone with my thoughts, as folks are more respectful of your brooding there. Luckily for me, Mobile has a glut of cemeteries…most of them old and filled with history. Exactly what the doctor ordered, if there were a doctor and he or she had orders for me.

I knew my father was dying, though I wasn’t sure he’d come to that conclusion yet or whether he was just putting on a brave front for us all. I knew as surely as I know my own face in the mirror. I knew the way I always know, and yet this time I also knew that the rest of the family did not know and because of my ‘gift’ they expected me to tell them what I saw coming. But should I? As always, my ‘gift’ felt heavy and more like a ‘curse’.

Eight minutes south and east from the treatment center, driving on autopilot, I came to the Mobile National Cemetery. It was huge, my phone search said it was a little over five acres. Perfect for wandering and thinking, and if I spoke with anyone — it would be the dead — they gave the best advice.

It was hot and muggy, typical for June in Mobile. And when I parked and stepped out of the car, my glasses fogged for a moment. As I stood waiting to become accustomed to the wet heat, the smell of horses wafted over me, from the mounted police stables nearby. The combination made me momentarily dizzy and I closed my eyes as I felt the familiar psychic tug that preceded my visions.

The heat has remained, but now it is dusty and dry. I open my eyes to see men in uniforms on horseback surrounding indigenous men. The palms of my hands itch as I look at the mounted soldiers. It takes a moment to register that not all who are surrounded, are in fact, men, as my eyes meet those of a fierce woman standing shoulder to shoulder with a man who bears all the hallmarks of a defeated leader.

The name “Geronimo” pops into my head, and as I look from him back to her, I get another name: “Lozen”. I continue to take in her energy, and her emotions, I feel her sublime anguish and desperate hope to die where she stands. It resonates across time and pins me in the heat that is both humid and dry, now and then, here and there. And just as suddenly I am back in the cemetery, standing on a patch that has no markers, and feeling a…

Natalia Corres

Artist, Writer, Poet, Editor