By David Estringel

Santero

By David Estringel

I’m a peculiar one, the old women used to say. Mother heard me laugh in her tummy before I was born. Dodged death—over and over— since the time I could crawl. Saw red lights peek under doors and old ladies in black walk through walls in the middle of the night then…disappear. I could find anything—anywhere—in the house for a quarter and tell you who was at the other end of an incoming call. Dreams come true and words manifest. I know not all good spirits are beautiful and the dead don’t have eyes. The most powerful gods are small enough to sit in the palm of your hand, while others couldn’t be bothered to move molehills. I can make you love me with a jar of honey, cinnamon sticks, and slices of orange. Make you go away with the light of a wick and wet, hot twist of a chicken’s neck. Gods speak to me (of you) through sacred cowrie shells and I can rip infernal monkeys off your backs with bouquets of herbs and white flowers, sprayed with perfume, rum, and cigar, tied with white ribbon. I know life seeps from noses and mouths of the dying like hot breath in winter air and I can keep Iku—Death—at bay (but not away). I hear my mother is laughing…wherever she is.