La Llorona, the one who cries, by the river, pacing up and down its bank. Do you know why she cries? I didn't know why, but still I could see her walking and sobbing with her hair limp and dark, and long like a willow at the water's edge. La Llorona, moving slowly, always, slowly. As she brushes past the wild roses growing at the river's edge, she loosens little dabs of color where they float quietly to the ground, grief's petals.
I have to close my eyes to see. I can hear her weeping. It sounds like water traveling over stones; it sounds like leaves clinging to their branches in the wind. The high gate above her knees creaks in sympathy. This breaks my heart.
I didn't know why La Llorona cries.
Not long ago someone told me the story of La Llorona. La Llorona who cries forever at the edge of the water. I see her still, same as before even though I know now why she is there, tethered to her path and why she weeps.
Does it matter why she weeps? We are all La Llorona, aren't we? Is this dream we call Life not a journey that at times takes us down to our own river bank where a high gate above our knees creaks quietly, whispering we are not alone? We go where there is love, to the river, on our knees.
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