Full Moon
Share Article I was grateful to see three full moons in the Sierras. Undulating valleys dreamed of planting, water and harvest.
Mad as hell caged hunting dogs below mountains howled high anxiety.
Grazalema men in sturdy boots carried lifetime labor tools through fields. When Luna was full they didn’t visit fields, river, forests or mountains. Men respected magic and ghosts. Men lived the day. Spirits lived the night.
Chained hounds howled dusk to sunset. Rising orange clouds met a yellow moon.
A heavy bolted brown wooden church door at the small church led to the vestibule of Republican resistance memories. A Virgin Mary crying blood decorated the altar. A widow in black performing her daily penance through action and devotion changed the white lace cloth. She soaked blood out at Roman public baths below the village where water flowed from stoned carved angelic mouths.
A forcestero with a notebook and camera passed her. She recognized his ghost, Yes a spirit visiting friends.
She blessed herself twice with bird wing fingers at the end of a warm winter day. Sun went home. Egyptian vultures pirouetted with the yellow moon evolving white.
She locked the black gate leading to the crypt. She remembered him doing his reconnaissance after yesterday’s funeral.
He worked in the crypt zone. Four long walls held the departed. Engraved stones with names, dates, in memoranda of children and adults back to 1896. He made images under the smoky green eyes of a wild Siamese cat on a red tiled roof.
Crypt construction tools, bricks, cleaning solution, trowels, broken black buckets and rags decorated empty crevices. Rectangles waited for ornate boxes from a casket factory miles and lives away. Caskets with simple bronze handles for six pairs of weathered hands. Brown and black lined caskets with satin pillows. Pillows softer than language welcomed living tears.
Survivor’s hearts beat long personal drum solos.
Every heartbeat contains a universe of possibilities.
Yesterday a casket in a black car garnished with wreaths of floral scents reached a black gate. Men carried it past a palm tree, through a church door, another black gate on rusty hinges and slid it into an empty domain name. Cold gray cement cavities had red brick ceilings. A desolate crypt space was long. It was empty. It was cold. It was a permanent change of address marked Eternity.
Men’s tools scraped hard winter soil. They were above ground.
Black was the night and cold was the ground.
“Any day above ground is a good day,” said an unemployed gravedigger. He looked at his hands. “I know two things.”
Resting outside the church seeing the concave valley and rising cubist pueblo I remembered a sitting meditation in Lhasa, Tibet.
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