mistress of sorrows they called her
(bein a sad vignette, told plain. country voice, that donít know the
harsh words, soís to make it go down easier. kinda tale you donít
like to read. †Ďcept you will.)
kinda girl never had it gentle in her years. got pregnant young, barely
outa school. Doc said it look to be a girl by the way it carried in her
belly. †eight & a half months down, they took a scalpel to her
mid-section, was the only way to bring the baby out. Doc sewed her
up tight & neat as he could. he didnít want to leave her unseemly, in
case she needed to attract a man someday. so he reckoned.
she & the girl stayed in a deserted cabin. she cleaned it up fair, made
it a home watched over by the small animals & the owl outside. farm
people were good, everyone was kin. they gave her outgrown clothes &
helped with food. she was grateful, but didnít eat much.
some Sundays she went to church. she seemed small in the pew,
smaller than she was, like she was tryin to hide from God. the ladies
reflected on how she was their own weeping Madonna, barefoot bride
of Jesus. so they called her that: mistress of sorrows.
once a drifter came by. he knew a song or two that gave her shivers of
joy, & she felt a sinful thumping in her heart when she stood up close
to him. he did chores around the farms, then stayed with her at night.
she liked the way he pressed his mouth on her lips, her face & neck. &
she didnít have to be nothin, just a woman, real, & open to a man.
after a month or so, the drifter heard the wail of the wayward wind. he
took a plaintive chunk of her love, to hold him till he met up with his
next needful woman, then he walked out. she laid there weeping the
last of her tears, hoping he would carry those tears with him on his
see that sad old oak tree yonder? she sits there sometimes & dreams
a man inside her head. she donít put a face or a name on him, but heís
a good man, & maybe one day he will come by, & find her thereÖ