Epilogue
I wrote for an entire day, and then another, and another. Every morning, I went to the bank of the River Piedra. Every afternoon, the woman came, took me by the arm, and led me back to the old convent.
She washed my clothes, made me dinner, chatted about trivial things, and sent me to bed.
One morning, when I had almost finished the manuscript, I heard the sound of a car. My heart leaped, but I didn't want to believe it. I felt free again, ready to return to the world and be a part of it once again.
The worst had passed, although the sadness remained.
But my heart was right. Even without raising my eyes from my work, I felt his presence and heard his footsteps.
Pilar, he said, sitting down next to me.
I went on writing, without answering. I couldn't pull my thoughts together. My heart was jumping, trying to free itself from my breast and run to him. But I wouldn't allow it.
He sat there looking at the river, while I went on writing. The entire morning passed that waywithout a wordand I recalled the silence of a night near a well when I'd suddenly realized that I loved him.
When my hand could write no longer, I stopped. Then he spoke.
It was dark when I came up out of the cavern. I couldn't find you, so I went to Zaragoza. I even went to Soria. I looked everywhere for you. Then I decided to return to the monastery at Piedra to see if there was any sign of you, and I met a woman. She showed me where you were, and she said you had been waiting for me.
My eyes filled with tears.
I am going to sit here with you by the river. If you go home to sleep, I will sleep in front of your house. And if you go away, I will follow youuntil you tell me to go away. Then I'll leave. But I have to love you for the rest of my life.
I could no longer hold back the tears, and he began to weep as well.
I want to tell you something he started to say.
Don't say a thing. Read this. I handed him the pages.
I gazed at the River Piedra all afternoon. The woman brought us sandwiches and wine, commented on the weather, and left us alone. Every once in a while, he paused in his reading and stared out into space, absorbed in his thoughts.
At one point I went for a walk in the woods, past the small waterfalls, through the landscape that was so laden with stories and meanings for me. When the sun began to set, I went back to the place where I had left him.
Thank you was what he said as he gave the papers back to me. And forgive me.
On the bank of the River Piedra, I sat down and wept.
Your love has saved me and returned me to my dream, he continued.
I said nothing.
Do you know Psalm 137? he asked.
I shook my head. I was afraid to speak.
On the banks of the rivers of Babylon
Yes, yes, I know it, I said, feeling myself coming back to life, little by little. It talks about exile. It talks about people who hang up their harps because they cannot play the music their hearts desire.
"But after the psalmist cries with longing for the land of his dreams, he promises himself,
If I forget you, O Jerusalem,?let my right hand forget its skill.?Let my tongue cling to the roof of my mouth,?if I do not exalt Jerusalem."
I smiled again.
I had forgotten, and you brought it back to me.
Do you think your gift has returned? I asked.
I don't know. But the Goddess has always given me a second chance in life. And She is giving me that with you. She will help me to find my path again.
Our path.
Yes, ours.
He took my hands and lifted me to my feet.
Go and get your things, he said. Dreams mean work.
END
By the River Piedra I Sat Down and Wept
Luke 7:35
By the river Piedra I sat down and wept. There is a legend that everything that falls into the waters of this riverleaves, insects, the feathers of birdsis transformed into the rocks that make the riverbed. If only I could tear out my heart and hurl it into the current, then my pain and longing would be over, and I could finally forget.
By the river Piedra I sat down and wept. The winter air chills the tears on my cheeks, and my tears fall into the cold waters that course past me. Somewhere, this river joins another, then another, until far from my heart and sight all of them merge with the sea.
May my tears run just as far, that my love might never know that one day I cried for him. May my tears run just as far, that I might forget the River Piedra, the monastery, the church in the Pyrenees, the mists, and the paths we walked together.
I shall forget the roads, the mountains, and the fields of my dreamsthe dreams that will never come true.
I remember my magic momentthat instant when a yes or a no can change one's life forever. It seems so long ago now. It is hard to believe that it was only last week that I had found my love once again, and then lost him.
I am writing this story on the bank of the River Piedra. My hands are freezing, my legs are numb, and every minute I want to stop.
Seek to live. Remembrance is for the old, he said.
Perhaps love makes us old before our time or young, if youth has passed. But how can I not recall those moments? That is why I write to try to turn sadness into longing, solitude into remembrance. So that when I finish telling myself the story, I can toss it into the Piedra. That's what the woman who has given me shelter told me to do. Only then in the words of one of the saints will the water extinguish what the flames have written.
All love stories are the same.
We had been children together.Then he left, like so many young people who leave small towns. He said he was going to learn about the world, that his dreams lay beyond the fields of Soria.
Years passed with almost no news of him. Every now and then he would send me a letter, but he never returned to the paths and forests of our childhood.
When I finished school, I moved to Zaragoza, and there I found that he had been right. Soria was a small town, and as its only famous poet had said, roads are made to be traveled. I enrolled in the university and found a boyfriend. I began to study for a scholarship (I was working as a salesgirl to pay for my courses). But I lost the competition for the scholarship, and after that I left my boyfriend.
Then the letters from my childhood friend began to arrive more frequently and I was envious of the stamps from so many different places. He seemed to know everything; he had sprouted wings, and now he roamed the world. Meanwhile, I was simply trying to put down roots.
Some of his letters, all mailed from the same place in France, spoke of God. In one, he wrote about wanting to enter a seminary and dedicate his life to prayer. I wrote him back, asking him to wait a bit, urging him to experience more of his freedom before committing himself to something so serious.
But after I reread my letter, I tore it up. Who was I to speak about freedom or commitment? Compared to him, I knew nothing about such things.
One day I learned that he had begun to give lectures. This surprised me; I thought he was too young to be able to teach anything to anyone. And then he wrote to me that he was going to speak to a small group in Madrid and he asked me to come.
So I made the four-hour trip from Zaragoza to Madrid. I wanted to see him again; I wanted to hear his voice. I wanted to sit with him in a cafe and remember the old days, when we had thought the world was far too large for anyone ever to know it truly.
By the River Piedra I Sat Down and Wept
Saturday, December 4, 1993