Las Margaritas

Oct 8, 2020 | 16 comments

The windy places have always been the lonely places. Maybe that’s because folks don’t like the wind too much. I sure don’t. It’s like a nagging fishwife, you just can’t get away from it. Death is the same way. Even though the reaper is more sinister than a fishwife, it seems neither can be dodged.

Those were my random thoughts as I stood on a steep hillside, 25 miles west of Cuenca, deep in El Campo. I walked among the dead. The wind tore at me like the reaper’s long-nailed fingers. I was alone in a place of rest for souls who have exited this world. It was a pretty spot but would be hard for me to rest in with that wind howling like a banshee most all the time.

There were trinkets, treasures to some, left behind by the living for the pleasure of the dead. Little toy cars that were rusty and small dolls that insects had eaten the hair from. Plaques that commemorated the deeds of the departed. Sun faded plastic roses that were an unfavorable shade of pink lay scattered in the tall swishing grasses of the paramo.

Clouds scudded across the pale blue October sky, driven by invisible vectors. The wind shook the flowers before me as if they were in the reaper’s fist and then, in an instant, all was still. I knew the wind would return soon; it’s always vigilant high in the mountains, two miles up. I thought about Doc Holiday and one of his colloquial expressions as I wondered who it might be that was “pushing up daisies” before me. As expected, the wind returned with a gusting vengeance. I put my face into it as I turned to continue my way.

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I was heading on. I wasn’t tied to that hillside. The reaper’s passed me by many times. I’m a cat, but more than nine lives have passed in just my one life. I try to count my blessings but there are too many to keep up with. I just keep saying thank you, being very alive and always, always reporting on what’s beyond the next hill.

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