She was not a medicine woman. She was not a witch. She was nothing supernatural, just a woman who made her life in the nowhere.
She looked at her son playing with block and a pan. he was gleeful at the moment and she sighed with happiness. Loneliness was part of he life and sometimes she felt like he would be the only repite from that actually he would be and she knew it in her heart she knew she would never have another and she knew it would happen to him – a short lived minute of happiness then a lifetime of hope that it would happen again. She only needed to pass the words in her heart long to whoever it was. It was not quite a tradition it was not quite a ritual there was no burning on incense or sage or spells to be recited it was something they had always done and that was all she knew it was something she was doomed and blessed to repeat and give to the next person the lonlieness and the knowledge of what would come to pass it was not fate that controlled us it was words in the heart that guided us from place to place and occasionally maybe someday it would guide someone to something other than this stillness of the heart the deep feeling that you get a small glimpse of what others have but you trade that for something greater the peace of heart the silence of pain and suffering for love the silence of depression and yet also the silence of more the wile of the better.
It makes no sense this story we’re telling. It does not have a purpose or a greater good it does not end in heaven or hell it ends somewhere else and we are striving for the nothing to know the highs and lows but then to get to the nothing where it is calm or so she hoped.