The Weight of Water and Sun

The fog was all around us on the lake that morning. That's how they say it in textbooks—Lake Texcoco—but to me it was just the water we lived on, the same water my grandmother had planted things in, and her grandmother before that. The city was waking up in that slow, underwater way cities do when covered in mist. I was kneeling on our chinampa, which sounds exotic but was just our family's little floating farm. My knees pressed into the woven reeds at the edge and I could feel the dampness seeping through my clothes.

I touched a water droplet hanging off a squash leaf. For a second I saw myself reflected in it, then the sky, then nothing particular. Just me, Ixtli, looking for bugs in the dirt.

I was checking the corn stalks for those little worms that turn everything to dust. People think farming is this big, important thing, but mostly it's just touching plants and feeling worried. No sawdust around the stems. Good. The plants would live another day, which meant we would too, probably.

Sometimes I think about how this mud rectangle is my entire universe. My family built it over hundreds of years, piling soil and weeds and dreams into something that could float and grow food. Our neighbors did the same thing, all of us connected by water roads. Their houses stood on stilts across the canal, dark roofs like sleeping animals against the morning.

The Great Temple was out there too, massive and important, sitting in the middle of everything like it owned the place. Which I guess it did. The volcanoes watched from even farther away. But honestly? I cared more about my stupid bean plants, which were having a terrible season. The temple couldn't help with that.

I saw a bean plant trying too hard. Like, really giving it everything, you know? Stretching itself up some flimsy stick I'd jammed in the mud. If beans could have ambition, these ones were overachievers. I thought about telling them to relax, but plants never listen to me. Not in that way.

I stood up and my spine made this sound like someone unwrapping a gift very slowly. My plot looked back at me—corn standing there like awkward teenagers, beans climbing like they had somewhere important to be, squash flowers all curled up tight like they were cold or just shy. The deep red amaranth looked like blood someone had invited to a garden party. This was my inheritance from Mom. Dirt and seeds and worry.

"The water runs high today. Tlaloc blessed us last night," old Matlal called out, his pottery-filled boat making that specific sound only pottery-filled boats make.

"Indeed," I replied, like a person who knows how to have normal conversations. I stared at where the water touched the reeds. Higher than yesterday. Not yet a problem, but potentially a future problem, which is basically the definition of farming. "May your pots trade well!"

He made one of those sounds that could mean anything and disappeared into the thinning fog. The city started its morning monologue—paddles hitting water, people trying to sell things with their outside voices, drums from schools where important children learned important things. I was never important enough for drums.

I noticed my chili plants looked wrong. A tiny trail of leaf bits led to a hole in the bank. Leaf-cutter ants. Again. I'd tried crushed marigolds. Failed. Wood ash. Also failed. Without chilies, we'd eat sad food and have less to trade. I needed epazote, something stronger this time, something that understood the violence required.

I was alone with the chinampa now. My husband Tlanextic was at his obsidian workshop, our son with him, learning to break rocks in exactly the right way. Everything fell to me—not just feeding us, but creating enough surplus to prove we deserved to exist. Enough to trade for salt, cotton, a new digging stick that wouldn't give me splinters in places I couldn't reach.

The sun showed up finally, turning everything golden and warm in that way that makes you forgive it for hiding all morning. I weeded with the familiarity of someone who has touched the same dirt ten thousand times. I checked on the beans, tightening their pathetic little ties. Brushed beetles off squash blossoms. I've never been comfortable with complacency. Carelessness is just hunger wearing a disguise.

By midday I was in my small canoe heading toward market with my goods. The canals were crowded with everyone trying to go somewhere specific. The smells converged—corn smoke, chilies, fish cooking, and that other smell that happens when thousands of people live on top of water. The human smell.

Tlatelolco market was a monster made of sound. I found my usual spot and arranged everything to look more appealing than it was. This is the main skill of farming, I think.

An old woman stopped, holding fish wrapped in leaves. "Six fish for those beans?"

I examined her offering with the performative skepticism expected of me. "Four fish. These beans grew twice the normal size." This wasn't exactly true, but they weren't exactly normal either.

We settled on five fish. Both of us pretended to be satisfied.

A man wanted my squash for his daughter's wedding. Offered cacao. I needed salt more than I needed currency that dissolves when wet.

The salt trader showed up as the day was ending. His eyes bounced between my amaranth and his salt sacks like he was watching a very boring ball game.

"Fine grain," I said about my amaranth, as if the quality of seeds was the most fascinating topic. "Planted during the last full moon." This detail was meaningless but sounded mystical enough to increase value.

He measured out an insultingly small portion of salt. I pointed at the vivid color of my amaranth, its plumpness. He added more salt, which meant I'd won without seeming like I cared about winning.

Before leaving, I traded for reed bundles to fix the ant damage and cochineal—expensive but necessary, like most things that actually work.

The afternoon sun hit my back as I paddled home. I passed Matlal and others fixing a broken wall. Nobody was in charge; we just did things because if we didn't, we'd all float away.

At home I drove reeds into the breached bank with more force than necessary. I mixed cochineal into a paste that looked like someone had been injured and applied it to my squash stems. My back hurt from bending, but beetles were non-negotiable enemies.

As the sun touched the mountains, someone called out that it was time for Tlaloc's monthly ritual. I rinsed my hands, though the red stains stayed, making me look like I'd committed a small crime.

The elder offered porridge while copal incense made these ghostly little threads in the air. We all asked for good rain and sturdy banks in that formal language people use when talking to important entities who probably aren't listening.

Between two prayer verses, quetzals appeared—emerald birds with ridiculous tail feathers that flashed gold as they flew in weird patterns before disappearing south.

Everyone went quiet, like we'd all simultaneously forgotten how to speak.

"A sign!" Matlal's voice cracked with the excitement of someone who's been waiting his whole life for birds to mean something.

The elder woman spat, which seemed unnecessary. "Just birds chasing smoke-flushed insects. Always looking for omens in ordinary things."

Someone muttered about his grandfather saying such patterns warned of changing currents. Or political trouble. These seemed like very different things to me.

"Nonsense. Good amaranth harvest coming, that's all," someone else countered.

Everyone broke into groups—some afraid, others dismissive, a few looking weirdly happy about it all. I watched my neighbors' faces tighten like drawstrings on a bag. The quetzals had been beautiful. Unusual. But a sign? Of what? Everyone had a different answer, which seemed to defeat the purpose of signs.

I looked toward my chinampa where I'd marked plants with bright red paste. The beetles didn't care about quetzals. Neither did the ants. They just wanted to eat what I'd grown.

While everyone argued about what the birds meant, I thought about my actual problems. Would the cochineal work? Maybe lime mixed with epazote would be better for ants? The sky kept its secrets, but my farm needed certainties—water, sun, constant vigilance. The weight of seasons, plants growing and dying—these were the only signs I trusted. I turned away, already thinking about tomorrow's dirt.