La Llorona

TW: Death, suicide, violence against women, murder.

Salías del templo un día, Llorona, cuando al pasar yo te vi,

The sun is towards the middle of the cerulean sky, signaling the hottest portion of the day is approaching fast. I can already see the haze of the heat against the line of broad canopied tropical trees that is the backdrop of the cathedral and the small town that surrounds it. The cathedral bells chime out their rumbling tones, the short melody ringing in my ears long after it has stopped, signaling the end of mass. I am convinced the bells are so loud they can be heard in the next town over. I look towards the steeple, stretching towards the golden eye against that blue backdrop. That cross, intricately carved from a strong piece of wood, from a tree that at some point lived in the forest back there, is now but a symbol and rafters and pews for this building. At that moment, it almost fits perfectly into the middle of that bright star, creating a vignette so often portrayed in that European art that is displayed inside these cathedrals.

The cathedral itself is small, but that does not diminish its beauty. The color is soft and worn from the lashing of rain year after year since it had been erected here by the conquistadores. The yellows and reds that were once so bright are now the smooth colors of sand and clay. But it is not the color that makes this cathedral magnificent. It’s the carvings on the ‘westfront’. Pillars that spiral like vines, and stone carvings that look like lace, crawl up the entire wall. There are seven alcoves and within each stand some saint or apostle in flowing robes, crowned and surrounded by leaves, flowers and religious symbols meticulously carved into the stone. I notice something new every time I come to look at it. A bird in flight, a new pattern that emerges on the pillars in a different light, a small cross hidden in the midst of the greenery.

I come and observe it like this most Sunday’s, waiting outside while the songs and chants and whispers of prayers float on the warm air. I have gone in a few times, after all the people leave. To sit. To pray. To confess. I believe, for I was raised to by my father and eventually grew to believe myself. My mother, who died when I was young, was tied to her indigenous practices even after she was baptized. She also believed, and before she passed, taught me of the power of the spiritual. So I come and pray, talk to the priest, pay my respects. But I do not go to mass. The people who go to mass do not welcome me, which seems contrary to the theology of the God they worship inside those walls. But I do not wish to add to the flames on the fires of peoples hatred towards the indigenous. Besides, I am the epitome of what the mestizos would call a delincuente. Not because I am, but I do appreciate their style. Dark coarse hair grown long and slicked back with too much X-tra gel, jeans ripped from overuse and cuffed at the bottom. Whether that’s because the jeans are too long or because it’s a style I have no idea. But I do it anyway because it shows off my beat up sneakers. And my jeans are too long, courtesy of my older brother. A white tank top and a button up long sleeve to block the sun in the fields, finish the look. The classic 90s teen delincuente.

Hermoso huipil llevabas, Llorona, que la Virgen te creí.

Just at that moment the doors of the cathedral are slowly, and gently pushed open. The congregation begins to file out. The wind picks up, signaling a quick summer storm. I begin to walk into the cathedral, as is my custom, and to not get caught in the rain. That's when she passes me. Her teal shawl ripples in the wind. I catch glimpses of gold and red embroidered flowers, a hummingbird in flight, a cross down the back and stars dotting that teal fabric as if it were the night sky itself. Her eyes meet mine, a fierce amber brown, the type of dark brown I have only seen my mother possess. I must tear my eyes away as she looks down and I am forced forward by habit, forced to look up in reverence. I catch a glimpse of the painting before me, and the girl’s amber brown eyes and shawl flash into my mind, as I gaze upon La Virgen de Guadalupe.

Someone catches me by the shoulders. I’m still gazing at the image, still thinking of the moment my eyes met with hers.

“You okay, güey?” Domingo says, his left hand firm on my shoulder, as if keeping me steady.

“Did you see her…” I mutter.

“Who?” he asks “A’ la mecha you look terrible hombre. Have you been sleeping at all?”

“Nah güey, I’m fine…” I trail off.

“You look as if you’ve seen a ghost”

No sé qué tienen las flores, Llorona, las flores del camposanto,

Domingo was right. I don’t sleep. Not well anyways. I walk when I can't sleep. Maybe that's not the best idea but this is a small, usually quiet village. The unrest in the rest of the state between the Zapatistas and the government has yet to trickle down into our village. Of course there’s unrest, but there always has been. Girls gone in the night, boys stabbed on the side of the streets. But these instances were few and far between and I had never encountered trouble on my late night walks. I kick up dirt as I shuffle along the road. The frogs and howler monkeys cry out from the trees as I pass. The moon is bright tonight, just having crested over the mountain range to the north of the town. I am staring at it. I seem to be doing that a lot lately. Staring off into the distance, at big unchangeable things, like the sun, the moon, those mountains, the cathedral that seems to have lasted longer than the village itself, being the only thing that remains from a bygone era.

“Shht!”

I whip my head around, my ears picking up on the universal Mexican signal, almost as famous as the chiflido. I see nothing. Then a ripple of teal fabric. No, just a flower. A whole field of flowers and tall grass waving in the wind, swaying back and forth like women do when they cry at funerals, keening and weeping, rocking back and forth as if blown by the wind. So fragile, so vulnerable and yet so beautiful. I survey the field again. A body.

“Ay!” I yelp.

She laughs. I did see the teal shawl.

“Imelda, what are you doing out here?” I say, clutching my chest to slow my racing heart.

“Waiting for you” she says.

She walks out from behind the tombstone she was standing behind.

“Why are you waiting for me in a cemetery, mi amor?”

“You walk past here every night, Esteban.” She laughs.

“How do you know that?” I say, sauntering towards her.

She walks toward the fence, and leans her arms against it. I join her, leaning my back against the metal and planting my elbows on the rail.

“Becuase you tell me.” She looks over with those piercing amber eyes.

“I do?” I answer, surprised. “I don’t remember”

“Yes, you do,” she laughs again, wrapping her right arm around my neck and placing her hand on my chest.

She plants a kiss on my cheek, so soft I could almost swear it was the wind and not her lips.

“You tell me of the moon, the way it shines off the leaves. The sounds of the jungle at night, the way the wind whispers through the flowers and makes them look like they’re weeping”

Que cuando las mueve el viento, Llorona, Parece que están llorando.

“I don’t-I don’t remember that” I say, looking down at her, the way her head fits perfectly into the crook of my neck.

She peers up. I am struck yet again by the color of her eyes. I don’t think I will ever forget the color of those eyes. I’m startled by the wetness on my cheeks.

“Why are you crying?” She says, pain crossing her face.

She reaches her hand up and cups my face in it, wiping a stray tear with her thumb. She wraps the edge of the shawl around me. We are intertwined.

“I just miss you” I say, between sniffles.

“I’m right here” She smiles. “I’ll see you here tomorrow?”

“Okay” I say.

She turns to leave. I catch her hand in mine and plant a kiss on her palm. Her shawl sways in the wind as she walks away.

De que me sirvió el dolor, tu dime, si ya no me pertenecías

I wake like I wake most nights since that day. Drowning in my sheets, choking on air, drenched in sweat. It always takes me a while to remember why I wake up like this. It’s because of you. I always hear your screams first, you wailing my name. But of course you didn’t actually call for me. The police asked all the people in the village about the night they believed you died. No one heard anything but the wind. Then I see him. Not his face, never his face, though I try my hardest to imagine or remember. But I wasn’t there. And no one knows who it was that dragged you to the river.

They called me in to identify you. Before they even told me that they had found you, or that you were dead, they showed up at my door and escorted me away. I told them they had the wrong guy, that I wasn’t part of the revolution, that the Zapatistas hadn’t even come to our town, that I hadn’t done anything. They laughed. I didn’t understand why, and after I wondered how they could, for they had just pulled you from the river.

“We need you to identify a body,” they said.

A body. Not your name. Not the people you loved, the things you had done. Just a body. I knew they meant you. My knees gave out and they had to carry me the rest of the way to the cars. You had been missing for a few days by then. Enough days that we had to drive farther down the river to where they pulled you out. I cried the whole way there, hunkered in the bed of the truck. They had to hold me up while I stood there and watched them remove the tarp from your figure. I had a brief fleeting moment of hope, for the figure before me was too pale and bloated to be you. You whose skin glistened like clay at the bottom of a bubbling river, whose hair was the same color as the soil in the spring, whose eyes glowed like dark red amber when the light hit them just right. No, I thought. This blue-grey figure cannot be you.

La pena y lo que no es pena, Llorona, todo es pena para mí,

But it was. And I knew it the moment I saw the amber beaded bracelet wrapped around your wrist. I dropped to my knees and crawled like an infant towards you, dropping my head onto your chest, grabbing fistfuls of your once soft hair, now tangled and matted with mud, still damp from the river. I cried so hard, I could barely stand, could barely breathe, or move. My fingers were numb, my face hot and red. And yet the tears would not stop.

Ayer lloraba por verte, Llorona Y hoy lloro porque te vi.

It felt like someone had stuck their hand down my throat and was squeezing. Squeezing my stomach, my lungs, my heart. I was going to be sick. I coughed and gagged, choking on my sobs. I felt like I was drowning. I couldn’t come up for air. You were dead. You were never coming back.

¡Ay de mí!, Llorona, Llorona, Llorona llévame al río,

I follow the shawl along the dirt path. She never turns around, as much as I wish she would. I want to see her eyes. Just a last time. Her eyes that shone with so much light. She said to meet me by the river last night. I have visited her every night since. Domingo is right. I don’t sleep. And I always look as if I have seen a ghost. I visited the cathedral before this. Lit a candle like I have every morning since. Prayed the Hail Mary before the image of La Virgen that reminds me so much of the shawl that I now follow through the night. The priest tells me to be careful. That grief can make people do crazy things. But I’m not doing anything crazy. Just walking my usual path that I walk when I can’t sleep. Like a habit. I see the glint of the moonlight on the water up ahead.

Tápame con tu rebozo, Llorona, Porque me muero de frío.

I kneel at the edge of the river, the soft mud staining my jeans. The wind is fierce tonight, wailing in my ears and through the valley. My hands shake as I take the bracelet from my pocket. Whether that’s from the cold, or exhaustion, or something else, I don’t know.

“Do you want it back?” I whisper.

I know she can hear me. No answer.

“Can you just take it…please…” I plead.

The wind whisks away my tears before they can fall.

“I don’t want it anymore.” My voice breaks.

This amber-beaded bracelet, the same color as her eyes. But the stones are too dull. They stare blankly, sightlessly, lifelessly at me. Taunting me. Reminding me that I will never see those eyes again.

“Can you do one thing for me, mi amor?” I ask. “Let me know you are here. Not just in my head”

I feel a warmth spread across my shoulders. Catch a glimpse of that teal shawl ripple in the corner of my eye, feel fabric tighten around my neck. With that reassurance, I stand and step into the water.

Hay muertos que no hacen ruido, Llorona, ¡Y es más grande su penar!

Drowning is not much different than weeping. You can’t breathe, you can’t think. It feels as if there is immense pressure building up inside of you and you have to let it out. There is something, squeezing, squeezing, waiting to burst forth and fill the air. But there is no air. And there is nothing but darkness, and the feeling of falling and floating all at once. You are in your body, and yet outside of it. You watch yourself drift, and tumble and sink. Down…down…down. And the pressure builds to bursting, shoving at your ribcage and tightening its grip on your insides. And when it bursts, then you weep. You keen, howl and scream and all that pressure that’s built up is finally expelled in hot salty tears and sounds that tear at your throat with their claws. Underwater, it is different. Underwater there is no air. No place for your screams to take flight. No wind to whisk away your tears. In drowning there is only silence. The dead make no noise.