Maria drowned her children in the river
to be with the man she loved.
And he rejected her in horror…
And so she threw herself in the river only to find herself
at the gates of heaven
unable to give an account of her children
And so she wanders
Hay, mis hijos…
And so mothers warn their children to come in at night
And to always be good..
Or la llorona will take you
You hear her wail… and it means that she will take you.
And I used to like to listen to my boys sleep
Breathing, in and out.
And now that one is gone there is a part of me, always wandering
Always longing to hear that sound.
It is a black hole in the sky…
A tear in my soul
as sure as you can see it.
And with the same terror that children feel at night when they hear the woman wail…
I feel it. Longing for my child. Taken.
Say “bloody Mary” three times into a mirror in the dark by candle light and she will show up behind you.
And funny… there is a statue at Lincoln Park on the east side of the lake
looking across the water…
Longing. Looking for her children. And you can hear her wail
A plaintive cry… long off and lost to time.
Except that it is a statue of Florence Nightingale…
And she is indeed wandering
Taking care of the wounded in the Crimea
Tending to their needs at night.
Listening to them sleep.
I wonder if when I get to those gates… if…
If I can account for my lost son…
Or will I be condemned to wander…
As it seems I am doing now.