Jessica Evans

Bessie, Born of Sage and Dill

Bessie is winter sage, fragrant tarragon, belly herbs for winter bodies when
there’s too much cold and not enough hope. In the Coe family, she is the
restorer, the redeemer of lost time, like St. Theresa, minus the guilt and the
sinning.

With girl children in tow, her sister in laws come to Bessie for smudging and
clearing. Eleven women full of expectations, wishes, daydreams tamped
down in coal, Tennessee mountains too thick to move against. Bessie keeps
them rooted with half-formed fears, even though she wants to set them free.

Bessie does not want this job, but Granny gave it to her and now it’s hers to
keep. Her sisters ask for ways to believe, their outright, overt prayers thin
and reedy. Sometimes they talk about their griefs, their losses. Bessie never
hears their longings. She wants heat, she wants fire, she wants her natural
sage bitterness to shine through her absolutions. She doesn’t want to keep
offering cooling words.

Today, Janice brings her a summary of woes and Bessie distrusts her
entreaty.

“Just make him leave. I promise I won’t go back.”

Except Janice has said that six years and counting, stumbling through each
moon. Bessie tells her no and Janice spits on her doorstep, uttering the old
words twice, a curse tied and delivered.

Bessie bundles up her toddler, who she calls Girl, refusing the name that
Bill demanded on Girl’s birth. Her belly itches, leftover wounds. She wraps
Girl against the wind. Tucks in her hat and pins on her mittens. Takes one
more look at her small sitting room, and then sets off. The forest clearing
between her house and Granny’s land opens wide with the light of the
moon. An owl screeches through the night, bitter, hungry, alive.