She births me on el Dia de los Muertos, stuffs me with hope and stitches me up… with deeds.
“Hope isn’t hard to find,” she says, “the thing grows wild out of the eyeballs of young children, and steady in the far stares of well-lived adults, who understand that ends are just new kinds of beginnings. The deeds, well… those take work and pain and blood.”
“It does hurt,” I say, clenching the painted cloth of my teeth against the jabbing pain, rubbing the crimsoned stitches she is using to secure the hope of young and old to the inside of my chest.
“I know.” She cuts the spare thread with her teeth, and kisses the top of my head, before taking a step back to smile at newly born me. Her lips are bloodied. Red has trickled down to her chest.
“You are dirty,” I say, pointing at the cloth that covers her heart.
She unbuttons the top of her dress, revealing fresh ragged stitches that mirror my own, and says, “Dirty? No, just paying the price for hope, for life.”
“I’m sorry,” I say with a smirk, knowing the crooked lines of my mouth morph the gesture into a creepy thing.
“Be not sorry, and live,” she tells me. Her smile is a red kick in the face of impossible.
She births me every Dia de los Muertos. And she stuffs me with hope… which she bleeds for me.
the wee notes…
– This bit of fiction was born out of my need to know why the Puppet in “Dance, Old Bones” had such a creepy smirk on her face. I guess now we know—most of us cringe at needles… but some of us (since we know we must) smirk in Pain’s face, showing a menacing amount of teeth.
– Linked to Incipient Wings’ Haunted Humpday.
detail, from “Spelling Healing into a Rotting World”, by SunshineShelle