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The
village fell to sleep beneath a moonless sky. The woman lay in the
open field near her house, her skirts bunched around her waist. In
the distance she could hear the toll of the bells from the church.
She did not know the exact hour, but each dong, dong reminded her
that time was passing though she no longer knew how many hours . . .
three, four . . .
She breathed deep and anxious, groaned as another pain jolted
through her. She yearned to press her naked legs together but knew
that doing so would not serve her. Turning, she moved onto her side,
her head resting on her outstretched arm. As the pains continued,
increased, she clawed at the ground, the dirt sifting through her
clenched fist.
She breathed and then again, until all echoed pain. Turning again
onto her back, she howled with the wind rising and then finally, now
finally.
Summoning strength, she rose until she sat, reached between her
legs.
There was no sound only blood, which she wiped away with her apron.
There was no breath only her tears, which watered the wildflowers,
sure to bloom tomorrow in memory. And the wind -
A steady breeze rocked her as she sat with it there in her lap. Then
the wind became cruel, teased from her mouth the name Gabriel and
carried it away.
The bells again; her husband's voice called to her in its sound.
She swiped at her cheeks. She looked down and gently folded the arms
and legs under, tucked the head beneath. She took the ends of her
apron so it was cradled as she rose.
Tomorrow, again, they would go to the priest and when it was time,
she would lie with her husband, one hand clutching the dark hair at
his nape, the other across the pillow, clutching the necklace,
fingers entwined in beads.
In the distance, the flame of her husband's face flickered in the
window.
At the edge of the path, she knelt, reached into her lap, setting
the stone in place behind the last and the others before. She
pressed the tips of her fingers to her lips, smoothed her hand along
the skin still soft, though it would stiffen like them all now under
her feet as she made her way to the door. Not one beneath her steps
ever uttering a sound.
©
Gwendolyn Mintz 2004-2005. All rights reserved.
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