70th Thread: Saint Mother of Mothers
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That morning, she was still in bed when she called me. She always got up before us unless she had been helping a woman birth her child all night. She lifted her night shirt, a richly embroidered garment gifted by a notary’s wife. Our house was filled with joy and beauty thanks to such offerings. But the skin under her shirt looked yellow and turgid. She took my hand and placed it on her stomach:- What do you feel here? – Where? – You have often touched the wombs of women through the skin, my child. Your fingers have always been clever, your soul loving. What do you feel? I pushed my fingers against the skin. – Lower, she said. A swelling rolled under my tips. She was looking at me insistently. The lump was hard and separate and terrifying. – A baby? – Sweetheart, this is no pregnancy. For many, many years, I have felt growths in the belly of women. When they didn’t turn into children, they ate the bodies from the inside. – But you know every potion, you can take care of yourself! – Your fingers will tell you, if you shut your love, if you silence your fears, that I am going to die. – Mother, no. – Don’t be sad, you will replace me, it’s your turn. – No. No. Not you. – Pray with me for a merciful death, and the salvation of my soul. She closed her eyes. I put my head on her belly and sobbed. My mother, who had relieved the pains of so many women, and men too, suffered greatly. Little by little, she stopped eating, stopped drinking. The larger the mass grew, the more my stomach hurt. When she vomited thick bile, bitterness ran up my throat and stifled me. But I could not grab her pain away, I could not take it for her not to be well again. The lumps crept down her legs, clawed their way up her chest and neck. She rolled in her bed, her eyes blind but to the pain. My father started leaving earlier and earlier for the fields, and did not return until after dark. Then he would collapse on a rough mat in the pantry, with or without supper. My brothers cried in corners of the room. One day, as I came in from milking the goats, she was lying still as a piece of wood. My brothers were around her. Her lips all dried up, she asked to be taken out into the yard. We cried but could not make her change her mind. My brothers carried the bed. Outside, she looked at the sky, the trees, the birds. The women of the village, one after the other, came with their children, all of whom owed their life to my mother. She blessed them, with her feeble hand and reedy breath. It started to rain. I wanted to bring her in, but she sighed: No, no, leave me here. Cold water ran down her face, inside her shirt. She didn’t seem to mind. My brothers, silent as stones, rigged up a cover of poles and canvas. As I worried that my sobs would upset her, I went to cry under an elm. Its foliage sheltered me from the rain as I kneeled down. A rustling above my head made me raise my head: Saint Anne floated among the branches, her coif and dress as green as the bright leaves, her eyes blue as the most serene sky. She smiled and bowed down to me: – Child, what have you to weep so? – Dear Saint Anne, I am torn inside as my mother lies waiting for death. – She is going where the newborns come from. Just as women suffer through the arrival of life, your mother is straining for the delivery of death. How would one have life if one did not die, how would one have labor if one did not have agony? – I can’t stand it. And tell me, how will the women of the village give birth if I she is not here to help them? I still have a lot to learn, I know little. Save her, Saint Anne, mother at all mothers. Saint Anne looked at me, as if she were considering. Then she blessed the foliage around her with a flowery gesture. The branches fell to the ground, forming a perfect wreath. – Have her drink a decoction of these leaves every day for one month, one week and one day, and pray for your mother’s soul. When she departs this world, I will receive her in heaven, and you will know everything. She evaporated in the gray mist, leaving behind only the foliage of her mantle. I did as she said. My mother stayed outside, her eyes open, her eyes closed, but the pain had left her. The rain seemed to stop around her bed, the birds to quiet their song. It was a whole month and a week and a day until she died. Ever since, villagers come looking for me when their women go into labor. I endure their sufferings as if they were mine, every pain, every respite. I lose my breath as theirs bodies crunch up from a spasm, I laugh when a healthy baby is born. Every night, and after every birth, I thank Saint Anne for handing me down my mother’s wisdom.
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This is the 70th of 100 women who talk to their daughters over 2500 years.
Earlier on, in ancient Greece:
The 18th woman tells of a mother separated from her daughter.The 14th woman loses freedom as she gains social status. The 9th woman’s blind sister lineage will not perdure. The 5th woman brandishes laughter in the face of fate.
It all starts here: first thread, and the last stories will take place in … present day America.
Thanks so much, your reaction means a lot to the solitary writer I am!
This is very beautiful. Ill try to resd through them. Thank you for this.
That was very poignant. What struck me is the contrast in vulnerabilities. The newborn son, fragile and small, totally dependent…
So true! It’s one of the most fascinating themes there is, à mon avis!
Love this! Descriptive but simple and direct. And so apt.