“Hand me the medicine gourd, fetch the black pot,” Gogo said. “Place Diogo here alongside me.”
Josepha removed the piece of fabric draping her shoulders and laid it on the ground. Rafa lifted Diogo and rested him upon it.
Gogo set Diogo’s hands, palms down on top of the serpentine raised roots of the old olive tree, making sure his fingers connected with the furrowed bark.
“Children, go find firewood.” Gogo gestured toward the hillside.
They jogged up the slope and fanned out, propelled by a sense of urgency, a mission.
“Undo the indigo-black cloth,” Gogo said to Josepha. “Hand me the umbilical cord.” Josepha handed her the dried shriveled part.
“Find the bird wings. I think they’re inside the bag.” Gogo placed the dried cord and wings into a small wooden mortar and began grinding wi
