By Susana Jackson
My heart feels like it's been knotted up like yarn, and it is being twisted through branches and the center of it all is dangling off a tree. But I'll continue, I'm walking down the cracked streets, blades of grass are growing through the cracks, and my small hand is laced between my Mamá and Papá. Mamá has 2 new piercings and Papá has lost 7 pounds. It is 10 AM and the streets are quiet and cold. The newspaper stands still have his face printed, my small black eyes stare at the black and white image.
“Mamá” I question, “Que significa ‘junta’?” (what does ‘junta’ mean?)
“Sigamos caminando, hija” (let's keep walking) she replies earnestly.
We finally arrive at the convent as my legs begin to grow tired. It is not a warm day, it seems the sun has hidden her face for these past few weeks. Here at the convent, it feels like there is more air surrounding me, but there is still an unease. Here I can breathe a bit clearer, even through the morsels of sand blended with the breeze. The quiet here is much more peaceful and not at all eerie, unlike the towns, markets, beaches, schools, and especially not like Santiago.
I follow the circular lining around the Saint, Mamá grabs the end of her displayed dress and performs the sign of the cross along my forehead. My shoes are black and glossy and my white dress stands still inside the slow moving convent. The monjas (nuns) walk swiftly in order to perform their rituals for the day. As I open my eyes and stare up to Santa Teresa de los Andes, I hear her prayer being read out through a rickety speaker. I shut my eyes again and begin to pray:
“Teresa podrías cuidar de tía Elsa y mis primas? Hace 3 semanas que no las veo. Cuento los días con pétalos que arrancó de las flores fuera de casa y las colocó en un frasco. Conté 21 esta mañana. Espero que tengan pan y huevos para comer. Espero que estén bien. Espero que hayan logrado salir del hotel. Espero que no hayan tenido que ver el cuerpo ensangrentado del presidente arrojado fuera del palacio. Espero que sus ojos estén limpios y puros y que lo estén siempre. Amén” (Teresa, can you please take care of Tia Elsa and my cousins? I have not seen them for 3 weeks now. I count the days with petals I pull off the flowers outside the house and place in a jar. I counted 21 this morning. I hope they have bread and eggs to eat. I hope they are ok. I hope they made it out of the hotel. I hope they didn't have to see the president's bloodied body thrown out of the palace. I hope their eyes are clean and pure and that they will always be. Amen)
I smile because I know that Teresa will help me. But, I see that beside me, Mamá is crying. Very quietly she is weeping. In this moment, she looks like Santa Teresa, with her rosary clutched between her brittle fingers, the tears rolling down her cheeks, she looks perfect. She is praying, however I cannot hear what she is praying for as she is silently praying. Her lips mouth her prayer. In this moment, she looks perfect.
I slowly step away from the tomb of the Saint and mamá doesn't notice me leave the convent and I walk outside. Again, I can breathe, but now that I have seen mamá crying, this doesn't feel right anymore. Still, I lay down in the tall grass, unafraid of dirtying my freshly washed white dress. The birds are humming and the breeze carries over my face. What if Tia Elsa did not survive?
Then, without even an instinct of faith that this would occur, through the blades of grass the sun is shining through. The light fragments dance between the tall swaying grass, it reminds me of how the light looks through crashing waves at Viña Del Mar at sunset. The sea reflects little stars of light, just for me it seemed.
The warm sun flows through my body, I am finally warm. And in this moment, I know that Tia Elsa and my primas are ok and that Teresa has answered my prayer. I wish I could stay here for the rest of my life and have hope. But I have to grow up, and have my own children one day. But this hope stays inside me, it will never dim. Because through so much violence, and through blades of grass, the sun shines through
Hello, my name is Susana Jackson. I'm a Chilean-Canadian woman who studies history at the University of Toronto. I mainly write non-fiction essays, however, I've been continuing to explore writing fiction and short stories. The story “Between Blades of Grass” is a story very close to my heart. It is about my mothers perspective growing up in 1970s Chile under the Pinochet dictatorship. The story describes the changes in atmosphere after the military junta that led to the overthrow and murder of the democratically elected president Salvador Allende. The perspective of my mother is intended to be child-like but with forced maturity in its language. Because of the tense environment, my mother had to forcefully mature in order to comprehend her surroundings and survive. For some extra context: Santa Teresa de Los Andes is the patron saint of the andes mountains and is heavily worshiped by Chileans. I hope you enjoyed the story and prepare for more to come. Thank you!
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