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David Estringel

 

is a Xicanx writer with words at The Opiate, Cephalopress, Dreich, Beir Bua Journal, Red Fez, The Blue Nib, Lahar, The Milk House, and Poetry NI. His first collection of poetry and short fiction Indelible Fingerprints was published at Alien Buddha Press, followed by three poetry chapbooks, Punctures, PeripherieS, and Eating Pears on the Rooftop.

When Blood Wants Blood

     There is nothing like the smell of Santeria. It is a distinct smell that jolts me into my body the second I find myself enveloped in it: one that suggests cleanliness—in every respect—but with a little magic mixed in. Not easily reproduced, you won’t find it anywhere but homes or other places, such as my botanica—a Santeria supply store—where regular orisha worship happens. It is the intoxicating blend of lavender-scented Fabuloso All-Purpose Cleaner, stale cigar smoke (used for various offerings to our dead and these African gods), burning candle wax, and subtle, earthy hints of animal sacrifice from the past, offered for the sake of continued prosperity, spiritual protection, and other vital blessings from the divine. You won’t find it anywhere else. No, it is not common fare, much like the smell of ozone immediately after a lightning strike: it is a right time, right place kind of thing. But why wax nostalgic (besides the fact that my own home hasn’t smelled like that for a long time)? It will be Dia de Los Muertos tomorrow and there is much work to do.

     My boveda or spiritual ancestor shrine has gone neglected for months now, squatting in my cramped dining room, cold and lifeless like the spirits it was erected to appease. A thick layer of dust has powdered the picture frames of my dearly departed, making their rectangular glasses dulled and cloudy. I look at the faces of my maternal and paternal grandparents and find that details that were once fine have phased into each other, as if viewed through a thin curtain of gauze: I can’t clearly see them and they—likely—can hardly see me. That is how it feels, anyway. The white tablecloth on top of the table is dingy, looking yellowed and stained from months of occasional sprinklings of agua de florida cologne and errant flakes of cigar ash. The water glasses (nine of them to be exact—one large brandy snifter and four pairs of others in decreasing sizes) seem almost opaque, now, with their contents having long evaporated, leaving behind striated bands of hard mineral and chlorine, plus the occasional dead fly, who’s selfless sacrifice was likely not met with much appreciation by my dead Aunt Minne or Popo Estringel, my mother’s father. Various religious statues call for immediate attention with frozen countenances that glare, annoyed that my Swiffer hasn’t seen the light of day for some weeks, now. Then there is the funky, asymmetrical glass jar on the back right-corner that I use to collect their change. The dead love money (especially mine). This fact has always suggested to me that hunger—in all shapes and forms—lingers, even after the final curtain closes. Makes sense, if you think about it. We gorge ourselves on life, cleave to it when we feel it slip away, and then after we die we…

     The statues—mostly Catholic saints—each have their own specific meaning and purpose on my boveda. St. Lazarus provides protection from illness. St. Teresa keeps death at bay. St. Michael and The Sacred Heart of Jesus, which are significantly larger than the other figures, are prominent, flanking either side of the spiritual table, drawing in—and out— energies of protection and—at the same time—mercy: the two things I find myself increasingly in need of these days. At the back of the table, there is a repurposed hutch from an old secretary desk with eight cubbies of varying sizes, where nine silver, metallic ceramic skulls reside that represent my dead, who have passed on (the number nine is the number of the dead in Santeria). They usually shine, quite brightly, in the warm, yellow glow of the dining room’s hanging light fixture, but they look tarnished, as of late, save the eye sockets, which seem to plead for attention, glistening, as if wet with tears. A large resin crucifix rests, tipped, in the half-full, murky water glass (the largest one) that rests in the center of the altar. As sacrilegious as it sounds, this calls upon heavenly powers to help control the spirits around the shrine, allowing the good ones to do what they need to do for me, while keeping the bad ones at bay. Some smaller, but equally important, fetishes also haunt the altar, representing spirit guides of mine: African warriors and wise women, a golden bust of an Egyptian sarcophagus, a Native American boy playing a drum, and four steel Hands of Fatima that recently found themselves in the mix, after an evil spirit settled into my house last year—for a month or so—and created all kinds of chaos, tormenting me with nightmares and my dogs with physical attacks. Ultimately, one of my dogs, Argyle, became inexplicably and permanently crippled (but that is another story). A few other things also add to the boveda’s ache (power): a multi-colored beaded offering bowl, strands of similarly patterned glass beads, a brass censer for incense, a deck of Rider-Waite tarot cards in a green velvet pouch with a silver dollar kept inside, and a giant rosary—more appropriate to hang on a wall, actually—made of large wooden beads, dyed red and rose-scented. Looking at the diminished grandeur of it all, I am reminded of how much I have asked my egun (ancestors) for over the years and can’t help but feel ashamed of my non-committal, reactive approach to their veneration…and other things. 

     This year’s Dia will be different. It has to be. It’s going to take more than a refreshed boveda to fix what is going wrong in my life, right now: a bowl of fruit and some seven-day candles won’t cut it. Business at the botanica is slow, money is tight—beyond tight—and all my plans fall apart before they ever start. The nightmares have come back—a couple of times—and the dogs grow more and more anxious every day, ready to jump out of their skins at the slightest startle. My madrina, an old Cuban woman well into her 70s who brought me into the religion and orisha priesthood, told me last night that I have a spiritual army at my disposal that desperately wants to help, meaning my ancestors. She said that with enough faith I could command legions to do my bidding with a few puffs of cigar and a glass of water. Well, that isn’t how things roll for me. Her prescription for what ails me was far from that simple. “This year, your muertos need to eat and eat well! They need strength to help you and you need a lot of it, huerco. When they’re happy, you’re happy. When they’re not, you’re not,” she advised, searching my eyes for an anticipated twinge of panic and they didn’t fail her. I knew—right then and there—what she meant, making my stomach drop into my shoes. Eyebale is messy business, regardless of how smooth one is with a knife. Regardless, my egun eat tonight at midnight. I give thanks at midnight. I—hopefully—change things around at midnight.  What else can you do when blood wants blood?