Blog 47-Sleep Was Impossible

For days I sat at at my writing dune facing the sea. At night I sat surrounded by the sleeping breaths of the encampment. At dawn I sat taking in the few moments of near silence before Palenque erupted for the day. I didn't bother to go to my lean-to. Would I ever sleep again? I couldn't alight, lie down, close my eyes. I couldn't get myself to La Fabrica, couldn't bear to write with Elba Luz, Guille, Tanama. My mind cascaded images and thoughts of my old life with Ori. Was this life, that life? Was this man that man? For the two weeks following the conjugal visit I had not once slept, truly slept. Thoughts ambushed me. Sometimes exhaustion overtook me and my eyes and mind dimmed down, but never shut down, never stopped. Inside my mind my eyes remained open, just like Ori's eyes, enormous in his shrunken face.
Sleep was not possible, and less necessary. I only left my place at the dune late at night. Anacaona and I made the pilgrimage to the overlook to look for Todos. But for more than ten nights there had been no Todos gathering. No Machi stumbling home. And Todos had been attacking everyplace, everything. Or everyone assumed it was Todos.
this morning I saw Anacaona walking toward me from the beach, still wet from her morning swim. She sat by me on the dune, took my hand. “Todos are demanding a canje. This offensive they're doing got the ear of El Mandatario. And there's Marquito Palombo willing to be exchanged." I turned to face her. “One more thing to throw at finding Ori.” Anacaona stood and pulled me up. “Another thing. We try anything and everything. We take on all the fights that are worth winning, not just the ones we know we can win.” I took big steps to keep up. Anacaona kept several steps ahead. “We're going to Coral right now. We've got to talk to Padre Ezequiel, get him to put your husband on the list.”
We walked the Anacaona way, fast enough to break a sweat, just a hair short of being breathless. The faster we walked the less my mind churned thoughts of where Ori was, who he now was, what he had become. “You walk faster than some people jog.” She laughed her deep laugh that reminded me of Machi's laugh. I tugged at her arm and got her to slow down. “Lento pero seguro, that used to be one of the Partido's slogans in my day.” Anacaona shook her head but slowed her pace just as we reached the first houses on the edge of the town. “The Padre should be done with mass.”
Dozens of women, men, children lined up on the church steps. Anacaona pulled me toward the line. "Clearly word of a possible canje got out." We took our place at the end of the line. She swung her arm around me and pressed her cheek to my cheek. “Bet you didn't realize tracking is a full time job." The line was slow and we did what many others had already done, sit on the steps.
I put down my knapsack, heavy with my laptop and my stack of fliers with Ori's photo to put up. “Tracking is almost a spiritual practice. Each step as we walked here took me closer to the Ori of the present...Tracking is the myriad things we do on faith, blindly, surrendering control over the results, not knowing which action will yield our miracle.” Anacaona shook her head. "Yes and no. We track to find them. We track with intention. We do it to win." I breathed deep. "A weight I always carry just got lifted. You know more than I do." She let out her loud laugh. "Yes, yes, yes! We are worthy of the torch you've passed on to us. Now all you have to do is let us lead you." The line moved and we scrambled to our feet not to lose our place. We were two people away from the sanctuary entrance when a brown young girl with long black braids , maybe eight years old, emerged from the darkness of the sanctuary, twirled to show off her long patchwork dress, and sing-songed, "Mami dice mala suerte. el Padre ya se fue." She twirled again and skipped back into the darkness.