The owl turned its head and stared at him. The wind rushed between the cold stones. The steles, turned towards the moon, seemed to whisper. He slid, as if in slow motion, between two vaults. His raincoat caressed the rusty grills. The owl landed further away and hooted for a long time. It was impossible to tell which of the two was following the other.
At the back of the cemetery was a mound decorated with symbols. The man raised his hands, palms facing him. He watched the lines drawn in the stone and those that crossed on his skin. Was he trying to decrypt the pattern imprinted in his flesh from the drawings engraved in the rock, or the opposite? Was he looking for an analogy, a secret message? His grandmother, his "abuela", had once told him about these lines with evocative names: line of the heart, of the head, of life and of destiny.
The man nodded to the owl and turned around. The bird began to preen its feathers. In front of the cemetery gate a car was idling. The young woman inside said to him:
- What were you doing? We are late!
- I was looking for something...
- On old stones?
- The words, in the end, are of little importance. It is their meaning that counts, just like the essence of beings and things...
She looked at him and raised an eyebrow:
- Is that an epitaph you read on a tomb?
- No, it just came to mind.
She turned her head and put her hands on her round belly
- I'm tired
He started the car and glanced in the rearview mirror. The owl was watching them drive away.
They arrived at the family home at the time when the crickets were singing. The weather was heavy but something seemed to hold back the storm. Estelle went to bed.
Diego asked his mother:
- How is the abuela?
She shook her head and pursed her lips:
- She will leave soon, go see her. She's waiting for you.
It was Diego who had given her this nickname. Perhaps because she had been a healer - a "rebouteuse" as the locals called her. She had a special place in the family. She was from the public assistance system, born of unknown parents, abandoned to life. She had no origins, which only added to the mystery that surrounded her. The "abuela" translated this perfectly.
Diego approached the bed. The room was in darkness.
- Abuela?
She turned her wrinkled face and stared at him with her piercing eyes. Diego said to her:
- I wish I had the "gift" too - to heal people.
She put her hand on his and spoke, in a hoarse, almost faded voice:
- Relax. This gift is in all of us. It is one thing to care for the body and physical suffering, but to touch a soul is just as important. And you have this gift.
- How so?
- You are a poet Diego, your sensitivity allows you to soothe souls. Why do you want to be someone other than yourself? There are a thousand and one ways to help. Everyone must do it in his own way. It is here, now, that your refuge must be, the place where everything becomes clear.
Something changed in Diego at that moment and the abuela felt it:
- So now I can leave in peace
- Abuela, why?
- The life passes. It seems to slip through our fingers. Often it appears to us as an impetuous torrent, that no one can stop. We feel like we are on a raft that could capsize at any moment. We are afraid. However, if we manage to keep calm, we know what we have to do. Then the waves calm down. This is the last stage, the moment when we realize that the agitation is an illusion. It is in our mind, not around us.
The abuela caught her breath:
- This is the end of my journey Diego. Everything is calm. I can see the island of immortality. A crane is hovering above.
She looked up and stood still. Diego gritted his teeth.
He passed a trembling hand over his eyes. "Thank you, abuela". He felt nothing but gratitude for the one who had just given him the secret of eternal life. He bowed his head in contemplation.
The storm broke.
