there is a woman who knows more about loss than she does of forgiveness.
she bathes every evening in warm water and salt because she once saw el curandero prepare a bath for the man who screamed every night after he met the black-haired devil. the mixture is suppose to heal.
she brushes her long thick black hair with a wide-toothed comb. it reminds her of the way he pulled her hair when she would try to leave him. it always made her come back for more.
she rubs baby oil on her skin while droplets of water are still running down her body. they swerve around her chest, clash near her bellybutton, and sneak in between her thighs.
but even with all the salt baths and baby oil the skin on her knees is still ashy and dark.
she wonders if it is from kneeling too much as a child. when she would kneel with her sister at church rezando for the return of their fathers. each a man who left their mother in pedazos. they were actually praying for their mother.
or if it was from the holy act of making love. when she would get down on her knees for him. praying to receive more. having his hands pull her hair, push her closer to him, to take him all in.
she finds herself praying for the return of her loss rather than for forgiveness every night before sleep.