The reason why Mikey has so little memory of my mother was because she died a few months later of cancer. Mikey suffered, too, and when he was two, he got a small wheelchair. I’m glad that he’s okay. I just wish my mother were here to see us now…

I must have been about five when Dad told us we were moving to a place called Walkerville. Apparently, he had received some kind of promotion that required him to pack up and leave Flagstaff. Of course, I didn’t want to leave.

"We’re not moving," I stated one morning.

"No," Mikey repeated, seated in his booster seat. His tiny wheelchair was right next to him. "No move."

"Boys, it’s not as though we have much of a choice," Dad replied with a small laugh. "I hear Walkerville is a nice little town by the ocean. You boys will make all sorts of new friends."

"No," I repeated, stomping my foot. "We stay here in Arizona because I said so. We’re not leaving."

"No leave," Mikey repeated. He was pretty easy to manipulate at this point in his life. Too bad he isn’t as easy to control now.

"Carlos, Miguel, we are moving," Dad reinstated. "No ifs, ands, or buts about it. And that’s final."

Mikey and I shared a look. Dad wasn’t going to make us move. No matter what, Mikey and I were going to stay in Flagstaff. I remember one time Mikey and I sat in front of the television on Saturday morning, vowing that we would watch TV all day if Dad didn’t change his mind.

"Be my guest, boys," he replied. He knew that, around twelve or so, Mikey and I would get bored and want to do something else. Needless to say it happened.

Plan B had a little more structure to it. I decided to stay locked in the kindergarten bathroom until Dad decided that we stay. What an episode that was. I think it’d be fitting to explain this one in my story. Around nine in the morning, I raised my hand and asked if I could use the bathroom. My teacher said yes and I went. When she heard the door lock, she walked over to the door.

"Carlos? What are you doing?"

"Staying put," I replied.

"Carlos get out of the bathroom right now."

"No."

Luckily, I had a really kind teacher at the time, who was patient with her students. "Carlos, why are you staying in there?"

"My dad wants me and my little brother to move away, and I don’t want to. I want to show him that he can’t leave Arizona."

My teacher was silent. "Alright, Carlos. Do you want me to call your father?"

"I don’t care, ma’am."

A half-hour later, my teacher spoke to me. "Carlos, your father is here and he wants to talk to you."

I didn’t say anything. I just shuffled around so they knew I was still alive.

"Carlos, son," my dad began, "what are you doing?"

"Staying put," I repeated.

I heard my dad talking to my teacher. Eventually, my dad spoke again. "Carlos, unlock this door."

"No."

"Carlos…"

"No."

"I’m going to count to three. If you don’t unlock this door by the time I reach three, we’ll use the janitor to unlock the door. Understand?"

I kept quiet. My dad was bluffing. He had to be!

"One…two…"

I decided it was best to unlock the door. I peeked out at my father and my teacher. My father looked angry. My teacher was aloof, rather detached from everything, but her eyes were on me.

"Mr. Ramon, I’m sorry I had to call you from work about this…" she began.

My dad looked at the teacher and smiled. "No, it’s okay. I’ll take care of this…" he paused and glared at me, "…for good. Excuse me." He took my hand in his and walked me out to the hallway. He closed the classroom door behind me, sat me on the wooden bench outside the room, and looked me straight in the eye. "Carlos, why are you doing this?"

"I don’t want to go, Daddy," I mumbled. "I want to stay here. I don’t want things to change. Ever. I want to stay here in Flagstaff and not go anywhere else."

My father sighed. "Carlos, it’s not what you want. It’s what we have to do."

"You told me that I don’t have to do anything that I don’t like," I shot out. "I don’t like moving, and I don’t like leaving!"

"Carlos, please. I meant that, but I don’t mean it about things that I do that you don’t approve of. You’re only five years old, son. You don’t have much authority in my life." He smiled gently at me. "I don’t think you ever will. Parents are always above the kids. Until you’re a dad yourself, then you’ll understand." He took my hands in his and looked at them. "Is it because of your mother?"

I pursed my lips. I still remembered my mother’s funeral. It was both traditional and Navajo, my mother’s native culture. I would never get the picture out of my mind of the evening of the funeral, when her ashes were tossed into the Grand Canyon and the Navajo monks chanted. A bonfire burned behind us to honor her eternal life, but it did little to comfort me. I remember the tribal markings that my grandmother had applied to my cheeks, and how my tears took them away.

"Daddy, I don’t want to leave Mommy behind," I spoke finally. "It would be bad for her…her…"

"Memory?" my father asked.

I nodded, my tears welling in my brown eyes. "Daddy, we can’t leave Arizona. Mommy’s spirit will think we are trying to get away from her. I…just don’t want Mommy to be lonely." At that word—lonely—I burst out crying.

Dad put his arms around me and cradled me. "Carlos, I had no idea that you felt this way. What you just said…it makes a whole lot of sense. Now I understand how you feel. I was hoping that you remembered all of those things from your mother’s funeral. The truth is," he sat back on his knees and continued, "I miss her, too. I wonder if we can move on without her. But then I remember something. Your mother is always here in my heart, in my mind, everywhere. She’s watching over us right now."

I sniffed. "She is?"

"Of course. And remember, Carlos: your mother loved you very, very much. She loved Mikey, she loved me, and she loved her family. She believed in our strength. And…if she believed in our strength, then we should too. What do you think, son?"

I thought about the matter. Dad was right when he told me that Mom would have wanted us to be strong. He knew what he was talking about. It seemed as though this was the way to go. But…I’d have to leave everything I knew behind. The Grand Canyon, my house, my grandparents…and my mother’s resting-place. But Dad was right. As much as I didn’t like it, we had to do it.

"I’m sorry, Daddy," I finally spoke.

"For what?"

"Being rude. And being disrespectful. Mommy would be angry, wouldn’t she?"

"Carlos, if anything, your mother would be proud of you for standing up for what you believe in. I hope that, once you get older, you still have that fire in your eyes as you do now."

I smiled through my tears and threw my arms around Dad. "I love you, Daddy."

"I’ll always love you, Carlos. Will you be okay?"

I nodded, wiped away my tears, and walked back into class. "See you later, Daddy."

My dad stood up and smiled at me as he walked down the hall.