“I remember the day you were born,” I tell Xianne. “Your mama was sipping broth in the morning when Ruby and I, baskets full of raspberries and herbs, came by to wait with the women for you to pop out.” We’ve walked the twelve miles to Central Village—Ruby, Cheyenne and I. Several other friends from […]
How is it women of the village know to come? But they do, one by one, to sit with Balboa, with our memories of her childhood, moments of laughter and tears. We breathe. We are present, witness to her grief, sharing her sorrow.
We’re making daub to finish Peter and Livia’s cob house. I step in gingerly. I have to warm up to the idea of muddy feet. But then it feels so good–gritty, cool, squirting between my toes.