Give me a moment, in this mouse of a day, such a tiny bit of daylight left. I can barely muzzle my frustrations before it’s midnight again.
For hours the children’s faces have been swollen with mumps or malaria. Or maybe it’s measles. We can’t be sure, but we must keep moving if we hope to reach the clinic by dawn.
The lead wagon’s drummer beats time to hasten our pace. My elder son joins in on recorder. His melody is jaunty, yet haunting, and it’s setting my teeth on edge. I am inadequate. I am trying, but I am so tired. My younger son wants mustard on his mortadella. My daughter wants vinegar to tart her too sweet tea. Threading mountain trails we encounter a mixture of extremes: a swarm of lady bugs, silent and immediate, in our hair, ears, mouths. Then a murder of crows, loud, cacophonous, lurking in the pines above our heads.
The drum speeds up, the recorder too. The road narrows, the trees step closer. Suddenly, a grotto, a trickle of holy water. Mary the Mother of God appears as blue as morning, trilling like a meadowlark, welcoming us in.
Is this salvation? Will she teach me to endure? Or will she teach me to fly?
Photo by Hosea Pramurdianto on Unsplash
