La Virgencita appeared on a Tuesday afternoon, voice rasped like a smoker, definitely not the honeyed tones I’d always imagined. Too many hosannas, she explained. I’d wanted an apparition, a bird perhaps, or maybe an image emblazoned on cloth or a statue that wept. What I got was an omen in sunglasses, a fountain of immaculate advice.
She kept vigil while I studied law, pacing near my carrel, cutting a swath through the shelves, shadows from her golden rays and the smell of roses trailing behind her. For some reason, she wanted to be consulted on matters of rights, especially water and property. Sometimes, I’d catch her lolling against the stacks, wrapped up in her blue starred mantle, drooling just a little. I’d nudge her. Don’t judge me, she’d snap.
One night at a dance, La Guadalupe found a man for me to marry. This one is good, she said, brow arching. The way she handed him to me, he might have been a melon she’d chosen. He took me out to the garden to taste the night. When we kissed, I stumbled into the geraniums. Leaves and petals fell in a circle at my feet, a lemony pepper scent swept the air. I stood still, a novice waiting for a sign.
When I married, things changed. I could not please her. I dropped my rosary too much. I failed two of my law classes as my memory fractured and arguments weakened. Every month was an eddy of effort and hope, but no children came. Her commands, her criticisms, her commentary whirred around me. Her rays blazed, hurting my eyes.
She decided to make me holy. The smell of incense and the star twinkle of her mantle made me sick. I became her shattered initiate, torn and emptied without sleep. She demanded I renounce all artifice, that I relinquish all friends and burn my books. Her voice became a growling wind, dividing me against myself. I built a pyre for the books, my father’s only legacy. The brown virgin stood guard, her face blooming in the flames.
I woke up one day before dawn to still quiet, the absence of her an eerie dearth. I found her on the lawn bent in prayer. After a few minutes, she spoke. Burn your husband. Her words gusted. I stumbled. Burn your husband. I imagined the fire’s roar, the combustion of flesh, the pop of fat, the singe of hair. I tasted ash mixed with freedom. I smelled geraniums pungent and green. But I needed no sign. I would not burn him for her.
She followed me into the house. I wailed, threw lamps, and ripped the shades. I pounded my head and swept at her with a broom, chasing her across the threshold. When I tore my wrists and showed her the blood, she backed away and seemed to fade. I fell quiet and watched as she bent down to pick up her moon, and held it high, a glowing scythe. Her body began to pulse, her rays trembling swords. I waited for her to cut me down like a row of wheat. But no. She lifted the corner of her mantle and rose, vanishing into a blaze of blue, leaving me to reap myself.
