La Loba Part 2

The fire died down long ago.  It is all ash now.  The hearth is not completely cool, but it is warm enough to tolerate.  The old woman gathers ash into her large stone bowl.  There are chunks of debris, maybe wood, maybe bone.  The old woman doesn’t seem to bother.  She sifts through, gathering bits of all, placing it into her bowl.  When the bowl is full enough to suit her purposes, she sits down, squatting alongside the fire pit, pours a small amount of water into the dust before her, then takes up her pestle.  She begins to pound and grind down the bulky substrate in her bowl.  Ever patient, she grinds and pounds and stirs, adding a touch more water from time to time.  She does not seem to mind the boring repetitively of her task.  Her body moves back in forth rhythmically with her work.  She sings, a glad sound pouring out of her heart through her vocal cords.  All is good.

She has worked all day.  Now it is time to sleep.  But the old woman is not yet done with her task.  The ash now turned into a smooth clay, the woman works quickly but with concentration as she shapes and molds and forms the clay into the form she wishes it to have.  She wipes a bit of her own tears and saliva and blood along the framework of this creation.  It happens so fast you’d almost miss it, if you weren’t looking for it.  She digs a shallow hole at the edge of the fire pit and places the figure tenderly inside.  She rubs ochre salve all over the form.  Then covers it back over with dirt.  Her job for now is done.

Younger men from the tribe come, building up the fire, stacking wood, adding tinder, starting the flames.  Many come to dance and sing that night, free from the gaze of judgment.  Many feet stamp and stomp atop that little buried clay base, completely unaware of its existence.  The old woman bides her time until the festivities are all over.

The moon is full and gone and heading home to hide for the day before the old woman rises stiffly to her feet.  Her old joints complain mightily, but she pays them no mind.  Again, the ashes are hot, but she uses a branch to shove them aside.  She knows exactly where she buried her tiny figurine.  She heads straight for it unerringly.  The earth has absorbed the heat from the fire, the sweaty energy from the dancers.  The old woman hisses as she snatches the figure out of the ground and cannot set it down fast enough to cool her raging fingertips.  The old woman smiles in triumph.  This task then is done.  All it lacks now is the reconnection.

La Loba Part 1

What is She re-making?  What is She re-making?  As She stands over me, with her basket strapped to Her back.  With that bowl in Her hand.  With that translucent transcendent smile playing over Her lips and burning out through Her eyes.  What is She re-making?  Why, She is re-making me, of course.

Do you not know how broken I have been in this lifetime?  How broken I am right this very moment?  Can you not look at me and see how I am truly all in pieces inside?  Do I hide it that well?  I don’t think so.  I can’t even sleep beside the man I love without spending half the night awake and pondering the moment when he will see how terribly shattered I am within and he’ll get up and walk away because there is too much damage for him to comprehend.

First, She builds a huge bonfire.  Piling stick and log and branch.  whatever She can carry.  I am willing to help her.  Neither of us carries tools.  We both use our hands.  There is no talking, although She does tend to hum quite a bit, softly, under Her breath.  I find it to be very soothing.  I would be lying if I told you I was not anxious or afraid.  I have an idea of what happens when the fire is lit.  I do not exactly look forward to that.

In time, the stack of wood is high enough.  Things are arranged properly to entice the flames to burn high and hot and thoroughly.  I myself gather the dried grasses and leaves that will serve as start material.  This time, it is my turn to hum, only I am not quite so steady, although I do try to be respectful and keep things quiet.

I sit beside Her.  She takes what looks to me to be two rocks and claps them together at the edge of our fire pit.  Sparks immediately leap forth, like little red and gold dragons flying through the air, feasting upon the bounty we have set before them.  We wait for the fire to grow strong, to grow big.  We wait side by side, me sitting by Her feet.  I know I am crying.  She strokes the back of my head as if I were a child.  I know it is coming.  I know it is a release.  I do not seek to run away.  Not from this.  Not this time.   She sings to me, as we sit there.  I don’t hear the words.  I only hear Her voice.  I have heard it for years, calling to me; I simply never paid it any mind.  Now it seems as if that is all I have left to hold on to in this place.

She stands, brushing off the seat of Her skirt.  I rise too.  I don’t bother dusting off.  Soon, it won’t really matter.  I know what I have to do.  She takes my face in Her hands and kisses me, both eyes, my forehead, my cheeks, my lips.  She pats my arm.  I do it all myself.

I turn to face the pyre.  I step inside.  I must burn until I am gone.