Scent of Freshwater

In a High School Lit class, we read a lot of poetry and stories, including The Worn Path by Eudora Welty (for some reason, even with all of the stories we read, the phrase 'The Worn Path by Eudora Welty'' comes to mind far easier than the others).

(SPOILER ALERT! in this paragraph)
In the story as I remember it, an older negro woman named Phoenix Jackson (authors and the names they choose...) travels a difficult path through many obstacles to get to the pharmacy to buy some medication for her ailing grandson. In class, our teacher raised an ambiguity that none of us had considered: considering the type of medication and the duration of its purchase, our teacher severely suspected that the grandson had not survived his illness. Why then, did Phoenix continue to return to the pharmacy? We were a bit incredulous at the idea - if her grandson had in fact already succumbed to his illness, why would she go out of her way? ..spend her money? ..to buy an unnecessary drug? And why did they keep selling it to her?
Our teacher led us to consider her travel of the worn path as a ritual of her devotion to her grandson, and then phrased the question along the lines of - why would she continue traveling the difficult and unnecessary path when the object of her love and devotion was gone? It didn't make any sense.

We were high school students then, and silly with adolescence and inexperience. The story was kind of weird anyway.

Our teacher clarified,
Why would someone continue with such a method of demonstrating love?
we blinked at him.
Why do we partake in the ritualistic consumption of blood and flesh?
- a morbid non-sequiter for an instant,
but in a small, largely Catholic town, even the atheists know when you're talking about communion.
I don't remember how he said it, but I remember him bringing his hands and the theatrical twist of face near each other as he dramatically paced the room, every bit a professor in a high school box.

The room was silenced in the realization that the question we'd thought was nonsensical is actually applicable. The room was quiet as the thoughts drained from that concrete image to other areas of our brains.

I'm not sure that we'd answered the question, but he'd made his point.






Last week or so, my grandma, aunt, and mom sent me a fat envelope of good-ol' midwestern homemade chocolate-and-cereal-y bars with a Hello message and a newspaper clipping. The bars are cut into little squares. I shared some with my friends, because that is what one does with good things. But, I've kept the others to myself. I eat them now and then, but not when I'm hungry, because they are not just food, and not too quickly because I must ration their sustenance until I leave. They are medicine against the food of the dead. They were sent to me from far away - made in the same country I was - they are evidence of the promise that I have a home waiting to welcome me back, and that soon, I will be there myself.