Woe Women

Woe Women

Down by the withering weeds where the water dances to a rhythm so ancient and low that even memory strains to hear, and the black ore rocks sun themselves by day hoarding the light swirling pools of dew which will keep them company at night, and where mosquito plays tag with dragon fly, the woe women come.  They come down the trail of season and time, feet understanding small rises and unseen depressions, knowingly avoiding the dangers which befall the less experienced.  They come with their burdens bundled in corsets of cloth upon their back and their laments hidden in the faded creases of their clothing.  They wear their troubles as jewels, extra ornaments which somehow make the mundane more interesting.  Each bead of an earring tells of another tragedy and each etching in the silver another unbearable occurrence.  These women weave their clothing with the threads of hardship, dyed the precious colors of woe.  They gather the best of their burdens to accompany them on the journey to the waters edge where the blacks rocks wait to aid in their chore.

The bridge to the black rocks was made long ago of aging rope and rotting logs, but the women's sense of balance serve them well as they slowly traverse the planks, one by one, in order to reach the safe side of the water where it meanders mildly through the wading stones.

The water is wide, etching its way to the core, flowing over dry things, soaking them to new and different life.  It licks up at air pockets, reaching for smallness with fiery damp claws, grasping breaths just short of the underbelly of the woe women's bridge.  Silence steadies their minds and feet, balancing their burdens with the stealth of low night creatures.  The crossing is a punishment.  Every muscle strains in the long duty, for one careless step could mean a loss of all treasured things.  It would be far better to throw oneself to the pounding powers of the water then to return to the unforgiving tribe less these possessions for surely the fierce drowning gods would be more kind.

One alone does not cross.  She is old age small; reduced by resistance to the call of her ancients, suppled by the weathered endurance of her many years.  She possesses her past; hoards it unrespecting, as a mischievous beast might strangely cherish a string of fine pearls.  She wanders up the bank languid, unrushed, unworried.  She honors not the ferocious water with even a glance of intimidation as she walks fearlessly into the war wagging waves.  A living apparition; an embodied song of denial, she disbands the elemental make-up of the liquid as she glides through it's deathly den.

The woe women do not watch as she defies all they know to be true, as if seeing would render gods worthless.  She alone believes in the power of this surrender.

Misa has replaced her mother just today; she does not know the woe women's' covenant of scorn and silence.  She points across the water at the woman and laughs a vultures laugh.  The others are not displeased. Misa laughs for them with all the black fluid colors of a cancerous rain.  She prods at this innocent; raking and gouging like only women can; ripping each other open in the sanctified name of necessary oppression. 

From across the sound-drowning waters she hears the laughter in the clock of her soul.  Her sleek borrowed body slices through the waves with the edge of mission.  For a moment she stands before them, waves rushing away the mask of age, suspended in her own true beauty, revealed in all that precludes this death. 

She approaches Misa with strength and gratitude.  Taking the young girls hands she forms a cup to catch from her eyes the knowing water; the blood of understanding and rain of seeing souls; the liquid peace.  Sharing the gift of tear cycles; water to quench, salt to recreate the thirst, she makes the young girl drink.  She moves sweetly to each woman carefully enacting this precious ceremony.   With each swallow a light breaks through, a new strength, a belief in joy.  This baptism rips through their old souls, cleansing them in rebirth, creating a liquid bond between the woe and the wonderful.  They see all things as one.  They know they will not use the bridge again.

She grows small, more fragile.  Each tear gift fades her radiance while her smile grows more sincere.  When each woman has licked the last salt stain from their palms she fades into the love between them and allows the caressing waves to take her home.