The Bone Women

Spring, our hidden hope, wanders the wasteland. She touches the edges of frozen spaces, then disappears back into the dark forest. She too is still woozy with winter slumber, making her way up the final portion of the staircase inside herself.

And we are following her ritual with fever dreams and bone broth. Our cloaks are heavy and soaked with salt and memories of what we were before the dark descended. The parts of us where old skin fell away still ache. Embers yet hot enough to burn our new spirits hide under the ash that we sift through in our closeted hearts. The longing for something real and solid and beautiful to grab onto is tugging at what remains of our former selves.

“This is the most painful part of becoming new,” the old women whisper, “Nobody likes it, but the fire does not care.”

And then we see it. The snow is falling again. The cave calls us back and the women of the bones make more tea.

“Not just yet,” they chitter in the language of the bats. “Perhaps you can try again tomorrow.”