anxiety muffin

Ruth’s cries pierced the silence, and the old woman stirred, opening her eyes to the moonlight streaming through the tattered curtains. Gradually she shifted her legs sideways beneath the faded purple blanket, which appeared almost black in the shallow light, and hinged a knee over the edge of the cot to roll herself to sitting. Grimacing at the pain in her right hip and the chill that had settled in the room, she pushed herself to standing. She patted the scarf covering her silver curls into place and made her way through the dim cabin to the child’s bed.

“Abue-la,” the young girl half-whimpered, half-choked, as she struggled to loosen her limbs from the pile of blankets that made up her bed, her eyes glistening with tears. “The water…”

“Shhh, little one.” The old woman smoothed a hand across Ruth’s brow and slid her fingers gently through Ruth’s short but silky hair. “Solo un sueño. The water cannot hurt you here.”

Ruth leaned into her, her thin shoulders curled forward into a tight ball, and the old woman turned to settle beside her, pushing the mound of blankets aside.

“Ven aqui. Sit.” The old woman patted her thighs, and Ruth obeyed, pulling the oversized t-shirt she wore to sleep in down across her knees as she relaxed back into the old woman’s ribcage.

“Perhaps un cuento?”

“Sí, a story,” Ruth agreed in a mumble, her fingers already drawn absentmindedly between her teeth in a self-soothing motion.

“Bien. Shall I tell you the story of the flowers?”

Ruth nodded.

“O-k.” The old woman gently kissed her forehead.