We went looking for a village of witches. We passed a man with a machete. A donkey. A sign said go back this is an active volcano but nobody went back. People put up signs that said viva el revolultion which we could read even though our Spanish is bad. Masks hung on walls, on fences, and on houses. We passed sugar cane fields. A man walked along the road with a straw hat on his head and a laptop over his shoulder. We drove into the village of witches but the witches were invisible. There was no sound anywhere. In the afternoon, we drove to Comala. Our house looked out on the volcano. It was Christmastime. We could hear music and dancing and the sounds of horses’ hooves on the cobblestone. Someone tied a donkey to a tree outside our window and it never stopped braying. My husband made food and set it on the table. I lay in bed for three days and nights. Bells and and music, horses’ hooves on the cobblestone, the sound of a donkey tied to a tree. My husband made food but I didn’t eat. Downstairs there were flowers. Outside a hundred year old woman sat hunched in the yard with three small girls in white dresses at her feet. Downstairs a woman practiced Spanish. Outside the men played soccer they rode horses with bells Pedro Páramo wandered the streets the church bells rang the music played it was Christmas and viva el revolultion.
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Categories: art, belief, Catholic Church, Chuck Willer, memoir, Mexico, travel
Tags: Comala, masks, Mexico, Pedro Páramo, village of witches, Volcan de Fuego, witches
Alison Clement 
I really like your style, Alison, so simple, yet powerful.