GrowingOlderHopeWiser

The drumming rose to a maddening crescendo. Smoke from the fire reddened his eyes and blinded him. He kept drifting between two worlds, feeling he did not belong to either, only somewhere between here and there. The dancers twirled in their white, billowy dresses, bending and undulating to the beat. The Santero was chanting in a guttural voice, as if speaking a foreign tongue so ancient that no one in the room could comprehend it. The assistants puffed their cigars toward Gustavo, who by then was writhing on the ground like a snake. The smell of rum and acrid sweat permeated the enclosed room. 

A Long Island Red chicken was taken from its cage to dispel evil spirits and passed over Gustavo’s body and head. Gustavo rose from the floor to his knees, clawing at the sky and whining like a stallion, sweat pouring down his back, his face purple-red, veins popping like a roadmap on his neck. The drummers kept drumming. Gustavo dropped to the floor again and did not move. Silence, like death, fell. It all stopped. All that could be heard was Gustavo’s labored breathing, but he did not move. 

Fresh herbs like basil, rosemary, and thyme were burned in the fire to bless the environment. The ladies took handfuls of palm fronds and took turns shaking and swiping them over Gustavo’s body, cleansing him of any residual evil that might have lingered. The Santero took swigs of rum and spat them toward Gustavo, spraying him with blessings. The ladies brought out a pile of clean white clothes, dressed Gustavo in them, brushed his hair, and perfumed it with “Agua de Florida.” The scent of citrus and the floral notes of lavender freshened his body. Ritual beads of the “seven potencies” were placed around his neck. A visible calm settled over his face as he slowly awoke from his stupor. He sat up, peaceful as can be. It was over.