“Baba? Are you okay?”
The little hand on my knee brought me back to them. I held the weaving in my hands still, the unfinished netting held securely in my gnarled hands.
“Baba?”
The little hand dared to leave my knee and rest on my hand. I took a deep breath and smiled at the dusty face. She smiled back. The other children around her told her to sit back down before she got in trouble for touching me.
“I’m okay. I’m just a little older than I was before, bebe.” I didn’t want to tell her how hard it was to wake up. I thought I saw… something…
I’m not a little older, I’m a lot older. I need help moving faster than a crying baby now. Winter is almost here, and food rations are limited. I shouldn’t remain. I’m too old.
I’m too tired.
The young men should be training, not caring for this old child I have become.
“Baba has run out of words, children. You take too many from her. Let us leave her be.”
My son. Not by blood. His mother still lives, but he calls me “Mother” just the same.
“Come, Baba. You have the look of other places again. Let me help you.” I fussed about being able to pick myself up off the stool, but he pulled me into his arms anyway. “You should have sent them away.”
“They listen to my stories.”
“They always will.”
“Who will tell them stories when I become one myself?” He takes a deep breath at my question.
“Mother, you will always remain.”
“Fool. I’m old, not an idiot. It is harder and harder to wake each morning. I hear them, waiting for me. Waiting for me to let go.”
He carries me to my hut, where others have already prepared by bedding. The girl that dared to touch me is there. The Others are waiting beside her. I catch my breath at the sight, but say nothing.
“Look, Baba! I’m making a net just like yours!” She holds up her practice netting as my son lays me down. She has learned the intricate knots very fast. One of the Others whispers in her ear. She nods, to no one in particular.
I sigh in relief.
There will be more stories, it will just be a while before they are heard again.
“Here, Weaver. Take this net. See if you can finish it. I can’t.” Her eyes grew large as I hold out the incomplete netting. The other adults shake their heads at her, telling her silently not to take it.
“She’s too young, Baba! You still have many stories to tell!”
“Weaver, there is a story in the netting. Do you see it? Do you hear the whispers it makes?” I ignore them. The Others are waiting. I don’t have much time. The Others can be impatient.
The little girl turned the netting this way and that, careful not to allow it to unravel. “Yes! Yes, Baba! I see the story! So many ways it can be told! So many ways it can end!”
“Girl. Weaver. Will you finish the stories I can’t?” The girl nods, then realizes what I’m really asking. She starts to cry as she looks at me.
“You have to go?” I nodded. “You didn’t finish today’s stories.” I sighed. It was becoming hard to speak. Her tears poured from her face as she placed the netting in position in her hands.
“Then I will finish today’s stories. And I will catch stories for tomorrow. And I will tell the stories you told me. And I will tell the stories you become. And ever will you be heard.”
I smiled. I heard in her heart she believed her words. She has strong hands for the hard work. Strong heart for the hard stories. Strong ears for the silent whispers. Strong eyes for the hard things to come.
But the stories will still be told.
And maybe.
Maybe.
The story of me will be told.
And I will breathe, once more.