Page 9 of Souls We Rip

I went straight to the summer kitchen and took each wicker basket with the food my mum cooked and loaded it one by one into the cart. The hot air of summer touched my skin, beads of sweat from the effort appearing on my forehead.

“Move faster!” my father shouted at me from the barn, loading a fresh batch of hay for the cows. “Not that you’ll get married,” he laughed, the sound making me writhe in my own skin.

Swallowing, I grabbed the last two baskets and placed them as well as I could in the cart.

The same baskets were borrowed by our neighbour when her husband passed away. For the wake, my mum cooked so much food that it lasted until the funeral, which took place three days after. For every child that passed the threshold, my mum, Angelica, and I would give caramels, saying bogdaproste.

We had to carry the baskets to the church, where the sermon took place. At some point, every person had to kiss my neighbour’s husband’s body, as a final goodbye, before lowering him to the grave. Everyone from the village threw me, and Angelica looks, because we wouldn’t do it.

Even Father Neagu watched us as if we had committed the greatest of sins. Seeing his dark eyes, I swallowed and kissed the hand of the dead, not wanting to offend anyone.

I bristled, remembering the iciness of the skin. Since then, I couldn’t attend any other funeral.

The wooden planks that sustained the passenger benches squeaked under my feet as I ascended into the cart. Angelica followed, taking a seat opposite me. Her eyes were still red, but her nose was no longer runny.

I couldn’t say any comfort words to her as my father was circling the cart, checking the wheels. He mumbled about too much food, holding his cigarette between his lips. With the corner of my eye, I noticed my mum’s shoulders straightening.

How much this woman has endured...

Two horses were tied to the cart, their neighing covering my father’s foul words.

They were dressed to the nines as well. Their mane was brushed and decorated with red bands on which were pinned blue, yellow and red tassels.

My father took the whip, and the horses started their trot.

With one swift move, Angelica moved onto my bench. “Do you think he is right?” she whispered in my ear.

The cart wobbled on the pebbles, moving us from left to right. I shook my head once, my eyes on my father’s nape.

“No, I do not think that, and I never will,” I replied, my voice barely audible. My eyes tracked as the other neighbours loaded their own carts, but not many had daughters who had to be wed.

From our village, Angelica and I were the last ones.

The houses passed by quickly, their tiny windows reflecting the sun in them. Our neighbours were watching our cart from their porches, some leaning on the wooden pillars, and some waving at us from their yards.

My gaze moved to my sister as a small smile broke over her lips.

“As long as we are together, Ana, we will be just fine,” she says, her eyes roaming over my face.

“We will be just fine,” I echoed, my hand covering hers.

I prayed for Angelica to Saint Ana, to find a good husband who would respect her and cherish her soul. I prayed for myself. To live my life, to find love and to be loved in return.

Ana

My father stopped the cart and tied the horses to a wooden pole. Without even sparing us a glance, he went straight to his fellows. His droopy eyes, upturned lips and flushed cheeks were a sign that my father was already drunk.

I heard my mum sigh and shuffle to the place she rented for the Girls’ Fair. The sound of instrumental music played over the fields. The creaks from the cart were muted by the bagpipes, flute and violin. Looking around, many people would come from all over the county to see their sons and daughters find their betrothed.

“Come, girls,” said my mum, grabbing one of the heavy soup jugs.

Angelica and I descended from the cart and unloaded all the baskets, sweat already falling on my spine.

As our mum arranged the străchini and the large jugs with soup, I took two pitchers with cold river water for the horses. My fingers brushed their mane and turned around. Eyes widening, I took a step next to my sister, who mirrored my expression.

Before us, at our mum's stand, were so many men and women asking and paying for her food. My heart grew because she deserved everything that was happening to her in that moment.

My mum had a wish to earn her own money, which, by the sight of it, had been granted. Even if we knew how to turn the raw wool into socks, cojoace and even blankets, the process behind it was tedious. The wool needed to be stretched and cleaned, but my mum saw that it got done. After dyeing them with alder bark, my parents would sell them at the market alongside smoked or fresh cheese. She would put something aside for us, together with the money we would earn through selling the fresh milk in the village.