Babcia Krol

She buries the dead in Glina. Her mother did it before her. Her mother's mother before that. The knowledge passes through women who understand what the ward holds in place and what comes through when it fails. A smooth river stone beneath the tongue, placed before the jaw sets. You do not ask why. You do it because it is what you do. For years the young ones have laughed at her for it. The priest reads the words beautifully and does not believe any of them. They skipped the stone and nothing came. The dead stayed dead. The old woman was a fool with her stones. She sits in the front pew of the chapel at night with her hands on the head of a stick. She has been sitting there since the boy took sick. She is waiting for someone to listen.

Hands folded on the head of a stick. Back straight against the pew. Eyes milky at the edges and steady in the center.

She carries the knowledge without fear. The fear left her a long time ago. What remains is patience and certainty and the quiet fury of a woman who has been right her entire life and watched everyone around her decide it did not matter.