Curandera

Fire crackles from within the aged wood-stove as the curandera reads from her book of recipes. Her rusted voice echoes around her old hut as she recounts the moments of her youth starting with, “When I was your age.” Her bony fingers clutch an egg while she draws circles on my back, reciting her consejos. I sit at her table as she crushes bitter truths and hard lessons in her mortar, which she adds to her potion. Counting my many pains from grief to heartbreak, she sets down a bowl of the strong steaming stew. Eagerly, I sip the broth seasoned with her tenderness and care, soothing my sorrows. Though her potion sears my throat, I take it without question, knowing the curandera has wisdom sewn within her wrinkles. Before I take my leave, she cleanses my spirit with her burning sage. I walk back into the world saying, “Gracias, madre.”