Ash Wednesday
The ground is soft. Last night's rain is helping. Damp earth piles up beside the deepening hole. She can't see very well. The sky is dark, cloudy, no moonlight. Better not to see the slimy creatures whose homes she is disturbing. Dig, dig. The earth is heavy. Mariel can feel blisters, starting to tear her tender skin, her long fingers, her soft palms. She's not constructed for this kind of work— too fragile, too female. She has the pale Irish skin of her ancestors, the ones who raised glasses in pubs, who sang of the bloody British— “Out—out, get them out boys.” They were much better at drumming or printing pamphlets or urging revolution, than getting down in the mud and burying their sins, like her. Now, the wind picks up and mud covers her shoes, sprays on her ankles.
That's deep enough…surely.
She stands the shovel against the low bushes nearby. She pulls herself up to her full height, the pain shooting through her back, through her belly—a swoosh of blood.
Oh, shit! I should have put a thicker pad on— Christ—I’ll be covered. No time to worry about that. You're not some lily-livered teenager, worried about a stain on your trousers. You're a grown woman and you're taking care of business. So get on with it.
Mariel bends, picking up the blanket, wrapped tight around her regret, covering her stupid tracks. The package fits in the crook of her arm. Like it belong there, but it don’t. It sure as hell don’t. She swipes at the hot angry tears, like the betrayal they are.
We're doing this. Okay. Enough.
She sinks to her knees. The cold wet mud seeps through her jeans.
She places the bundle in the hole. A prayer chokes in her throat.
Jesus, I'm sorry. Okay. I'm sorry. I’m… no time. Just finish this.
She pushes mud on top of the blanket. Then stops— tears blinding her. Suddenly, she yanks the scapula from around her neck…hard. It won't come— strong, bloody cord the nuns use. She barks a laugh and raises the cord up over her head, places it on the bundle—the pink blanket now wet and soiled— streams of dirty water running over it, soaking through to the gelatinous form beneath.
Blessed Mary save me.
She’s shoves the rest of the heavy earth into the hole, into the darkness and the pain she will feel forever. She strews some leaves over the disturbed earth covering the marks her shoes have left. She rubs the back of her neck. Tears run down her face. With a mud-streaked finger, she paints a cross on her forehead.
Just like Ash Wednesday, my girl. You’ve got forty days now to be a bloody sorry mess. I don't think there'll be a resurrection at the end of this party.
No, no party at all.
Written on November 19, 2020