Treasure of the World Tara Sullivan (inspirational books for women TXT) 📖

stolen silver in Uyuni. Daniel is to the east, somewhere along the 5 before Sucre, breathing better air.

The cold wind whipping over the mountain takes my exhale with it, whisking it off to horizons I will never see. I force myself to let go of my sadness. And in the stillness of the hours after midnight, I think. I think about La Paz and Sucre. Of the 1 and the 5. I think of Abuelita handing me an acetylene helmet when I soaked a box of matches.

This is my country and it has more than one capital.

This is my city and it has more than one main road.

This is my home and there is more than one way to light a cook fire.

This is my life. There must be more than one way to live it.

The Inca constructed wonders without the wheel or steel or money or writing or horses, I remind myself. It’s time I stopped focusing on all the things I don’t have. It’s time to start building anyway. And so, instead of resting my head on my crossed arms and letting my thoughts chill me until dawn, I stand, and pace, and find a better way.

When I get home, Mami is waiting for me, as she has been every morning I’ve worked as a guarda. I’m exhausted, but when I walk in the door, I’m instantly cheered to see that both César and Belén are up and sitting at the table. With a few days of rest and medicine, César’s cough is settling. He’s hunched forward, cradling his cup of tea, and Belén is still pale and is wrapped tightly in a blanket, but just seeing the two of them up lifts my spirits.

I sink onto a second bucket that has been placed beside Belén. Mami puts a cup of tea in front of me.

“How was your night?” asks Belén.

“I’m okay, and nothing else was taken,” I say, and leave it at that. Abuelita drapes a blanket around my shoulders and gives me a one-armed hug. I feel warmer already.

I sip my tea and consider my new family. Mami, willing to remarry to protect her children. César, willing to leave his sickbed to rescue me. Belén, willing to give up on her dreams to help out. Abuelita, willing to tell me every story she knows until I can stitch together a new truth for myself.

I remember what Victor said at the mouth of the mine: I won’t leave . . . If it caves in again, I’ll stay here and dig you out. I promise.

Maybe it’s true that none of us can stop the avalanche of bad things that will try to crush us. But the true tragedy is not the avalanche, it’s when each person runs away, trying to get what’s best only for themselves, leaving others to die in the rubble. I think of the sacrifices Mami and César and Abuelita and Belén have already been willing to make for me and the sacrifices I’ve made for them. If we all commit to digging each other out, no matter what, we can make sure that no one gets buried.

I take a deep breath.

“So,” I say, “I’ve been thinking.”

Three days later, Belén is well enough to return to school. Mami lets her go because it’s a Friday: if it exhausts her, she can rest up over the weekend.

Even after spending the night awake as a guarda, I walk with her. Though she no longer has constant headaches, she does sometimes get dizzy, and I won’t take the chance of her stumbling off a cliff if I can avoid it.

Belén’s friends chirrup with happiness to have her returned to the flock, and we walk in a companionable group over the rocky path from the houses to the school. When we arrive, the little kids knock and are let in by Doña Inés, like always. She has her baby in a sling around her body. We all pause to look in and coo at the beautiful, healthy little girl.

I give Belén a quick hug, and she scampers after her friends. To my left those same boys are still wrestling ore carts in and out of the mine by the school, just as boys have been doing without a break for the past 471 years. It’s not going to change, I think. Ever.

But instead of filling me with sadness, today it fills me with fire. I’m done waiting for the world to change, to give me what I want. It’s time to build my future using what I’ve got now. It’s time for me to change. I turn to the gate just as Doña Inés is about to close it.

“Wait!” I say. “Please.”

Doña Inés is surprised but lets me in with a smile.

I haven’t been to school in over a month, but the morning routine hasn’t changed. I go and sit in Don Marcelino’s office while he sings the national anthem with the kids and gives his daily talk. I can hear him through the open door. Today’s topic is Resilience.

Yes, I think with a smile. Exactly.

When the talk is done and the kids have surged off for their breakfast, Don Marcelino returns to his office.

“Ana,” he says, surprise clearly written all over his face. “How are you?”

“I’m well,” I say, gathering my courage for the speech I’ve rehearsed. “But I was wondering something.”

“Yes?” he says, settling himself behind his desk and pushing his square glasses up the bridge of his nose. “What can I do for you?”

They’re the same words he used when my request was for him to drive my father’s corpse down the mountain. I swallow. All my well-rehearsed words vanish, scattering like rice spilled on a rock floor. When I open my mouth, my old hopes come out instead.

“Someday, I want to leave this place,” I confess in a whisper. “Someday, I want to have a nice house in the city and make enough to support my family. I don’t want to