From The Diary of the Mother of the Woman With the Issue of Blood

Another exercise from the weekend. I really enjoyed this one, it was a stretch of the imagination. I will have to do it again! 

My missing daughter came home today, she looked shell-shocked. She went to her room, took all her things down to the river and began to wash them. I didn’t know where she came from, she was gone before I got up – which in itself was very unusual.

I followed her down to the river, “Where have you been?” I asked, trying to keep the accusatory tone out of my voice.

Her head turned towards me and she blinked slowly, like she was waking from a dream. “I went to see the teacher, Ima. He…” she stopped here, looked down at her hands through the water, and finished in a whisper, “I am healed.”

I had watched my daughter go from village to village, seeking out anyone who could help her; this wasn’t a new thing. I had to bite down the frustration that threatened to come spilling out; the tears that wanted to choke me as I thought about the times she would return, her strength leached out of her, the sickness making her pale as a ghost.

Twelve years I watched her sink deeper and deeper into despair, branded as unclean by everyone – alone. Twelve years of pleading with her to stop wasting her money on phony healers. Yet there she stood, telling me that she was healed, and all I could think of was, here we go yet again.

I braced myself and asked the question, “When you say you were healed, what do you mean?” Continue reading