There were days when I woke up knowing that the pain would come for me. There were days I woke up and it already had. There were times when it lay docile if undisturbed, and there were times when I refused to acknowledge it. But there was never a time without it.
Yesterday, it was dormant and festering. Today, the wound had ruptured. And today was not the day for me to completely and utterly fall apart.
Today came in furiously, as if the universe itself was set on undermining the shaky stability I had managed to find these past months.
Bruno was doing what he could to further that end. Sick again and clingy. Wincing, I pulled him off one breast. It was tender and raw from an entire night of his suckling; the other was uncomfortably swollen and trickling milk down my front. Brunito flailed weakly, turning in to re-latch. Sighing, I reached for Pepa – she was the most prone to rage when hungry – and held both tucked under an arm while they nursed.
The distraction the babies provided ended after both Pepa and Julieta were fed. The only saving grace I had was that all three were still small and mostly immobile, which made it easier to secure them in slings for transport. Unfortunately, this was not something I could do one handed, and Bruno still refused to be left alone. So the four of us sat in varying stages of helplessness and tears until there was a knock at the door, exactly what I neither wanted nor needed.
I moved the girls back to their crib, hoping they would find some solace in each other's presence and took Bruno downstairs with me. Whoever it was, Casita had judged their appearance important in some capacity and allowed them to approach. I didn't always agree with Casita's definition of 'importance' but if nothing else, it probably felt I needed to do something other than sit and cry.
The door opened of its own accord, and Sister Lucia's thin face and habit stuck itself through the crack. She blinked at the state of affairs inside Casita, noting the two careworn figures before her and the two long wails coming from upstairs.
"Buenos días, Sister," I began with as much dignity as I could muster, covered as I was in all manner of baby related mess and indecently clad to boot.
She flapped a hand at me. "Come, come, come. Let's take care of those babies first."
Too tired – and too grateful – to argue, I trundled after her. She pressed me onto the bed in a reclining position, unlatching Bruno and giving him her finger to gnaw on while she examined my wreck of a body. Under her gaze, I fed Julieta first this time and kept both girls off of the nipple Bruno had shredded.
"Have you eaten, mija?" she asked kindly.
I shook my head.
"Have you slept?"
Another shake.
"Ven aquí, chiquita," she crooned at Pepa. She took the children and laid them down one by one, with more calm than I had ever managed. I struggled against the weariness and sat up, but she stopped me with a hand. "No, mija. You rest for a moment. I admit to being about our Lord's work of material provision, but it was not a coincidence that I arrived when I did."
I blinked, stupid with fatigue, and watched as she tittered about the room. She left at some point and came back carrying an open jar of a fragrant paste to me. She drew back my shirt and tended to the lesions that had once been nipples, the salve soothing and cool. Replacing the shirt to a modicum of decency, she set the jar on the nightstand, and sat back on the bed to take my hands.
"Mija," she began carefully. "I worry for you."
The ever-present pain jolted past the numb exhaustion. I had nothing to say, nothing to do, except stare blankly at our joined hands. When had I last attended? Weeks? I'd lost count. When I had last prayed? ...months...
Nearly four months.
I pressed my lips together to stop them trembling, determined not to think about it.
Not today.
But of course today.
When I was weak and exhausted and sore. When I was stretched beyond breaking, when I was hungry, when I was restless, and when I was so damned angry at my husband and so damned guilty for it.
"Mija," Sister Lucia ran her finger over my brow, smoothing the lines that I knew were forming. "Give it to God."
I surprised us both with a small, mirthless chuckle. "I have given so much already, Sister."
"Alma."
"Please don't," I took back my hands. "Please don't tell me He gives and takes away. He has taken everything."
The raw whisper echoed around the room. My home, my family and friends...the love of my life – gone. Vapor in the wind. All that I had ever had, ever known carried off in the wake of this world. And this world just kept turning – like they had never been anything of consequence. All that was to me a comfort was replaced by all that was a need for me to fill: a town of refugees and three orphans whose father had been slain and whose mother collapsed and died of grief beside him.
To whom much is given, much is required.
Indeed.
A small, gnarled hand tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear and gently lifted my chin. "All I would say is that He will turn mourning into dancing. But not now, and that's okay."
She laid her hand on my head and prayed for the repose of my soul – a thing I thought a long time coming – and left. My soul, my mind, my heart, my strength – all were weary, pressed in from all sides with the weight of despair.
And I had mourned. Deeply. Privately.
So no one would see if I stopped believing.
Because I still mourned. Because I couldn't go a single night without our last one playing itself out, like a never ending stage play. Because I just kept seeing the militia, the machete, the blood, the body. Because the tears never stopped. Because we were supposed to raise a family and grow old together and die in each other's arms, surrounded by loved ones - not at twenty-five, not surrounded by soldiers, and not...not alone.
And I had prayed. I had prayed for someone – anyone else to pick up this cross. To carry these babies, to carry this town, to carry this miracle. Anyone but me.
And those prayers had been answered – for everyone but me.
Today eventually left me, cold and hurting in every sense of the words. Tonight stretched out before me, long and empty.
Maybe tomorrow would forget who I was.
Author's Note: I imagine many days passed like this for Alma in the months following Pedro's death, her world divided into surviving Today, Tonight, and Tomorrow, and I can't believe that on top of losing her home, her love, probably other family and friends, that her faith wouldn't also have been a casualty. I also believe that her inner strength formed in her isolation as a single parent of three who was thrown into a leadership role through a tragedy in her community.
As a character, I couldn't get her to give me much more than this - but this unresolved, ever present vein of grief is what carries her through the next 50 years, so...maybe it's more in character than I think.
Inspiration Song: "Oh My Soul" by Casting Crowns (Fair warning: If you empathize with Alma on any level and you know that her name means 'Soul,' that song may destroy you. I was low key weeping for a fictional character all day yesterday.)
