The Hacienda

by Isabel Cañas

I didn’t care about a sprinkle of holy water here and there, a murmured prayer over my threshold. I wanted an exorcism.

“Some illnesses we cannot cure,” my grandmother said. “Others we can soothe. Sorrow is one of these. Loneliness is another.”

Loneliness had been a part of my life before, and perhaps it would be again—it was not something that would kill us.