After the Fever Lifted All day Gertruda followed her father's wagon as it scooped spuds from the ground. Bucket after bucket she filled, as heavy and hot as buried stars. At night the fever gained and she felt herself grow crowded with light and grace. Spirits whispered and the moon sang just for her --it sounded a bit like crickets-- and she felt herself becoming an angel.
But instead of God, the doctor showed his face. A cold bath, Tea with ice. Let her sleep all she wants. She'll be fine.
A week of bed rest, then back to following the plow, the dirt beneath her nails no longer grains of gold, the pain behind her shoulder blades strained muscles, not the buds of wings.
The weight of everything astonished her: the clay bowl of bread dough, the wet clothes she hung on the line. her wool scarf, sodden with sweat, roped around her neck,
Years later, a woman now and far from the family farm, she sometimes recalled the faint singing; and, when lifting a child from her crib, or setting a pot on the burner, she felt astonished again at the incessant earthbound pull. |