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We were clearing the dishes after dinner when I found myself telling my 15 year old son the story of La Llorona I’d been re-reading Clarissa Pinkola Estés’s collection of folktales and myths, Women who Run with the Wolves (1992) It’s a work that reveals itself over time and one of a handful of books I return to whenever I find myself at one of life’s crossroads I’d just read ‘La Llorona’ and left it open, face down at the edge of our table while we ate I was reeling It was not the first time I’d encountered this tale, yet I did not remember it from earlier readings Perhaps I was not ready I scraped broccoli stems off a plate into the bin I started, ‘Once upon a time, there was a poor Brown woman in Guatemala and she fell in love with a wealthy hidalgo,’   ‘What’s a hidalgo? And where is this taking place?’ He handed me another dirty plate   ‘It’s a Spanish lord in colonial times And the story comes from a small Latin country in central America, not far from Haiti’   I am from Haiti   ‘So,’ I continued, ‘They were happy because the lord thought this poor woman was very beautiful and he took her into his hacienda – which is Spanish for villa – surrounded by bougainvillea and the sweet smell of almonds from the fragrant virgin’s bower that climbed the old stone walls They made two babies together and loved and cared for them One sunny morning she smiled at him and he didn’t smile back He told her without looking at her that he was leaving her and taking the children with him He had found a woman he could marry, European and wealthy Our lady looked around herself and saw that everything good had been taken away from her In despair, she took their two small boys to the river and she tied a rock to her ankle Hugging them tight, she jumped in where the water was deep They all drowned She came back though,’   ‘What?’ He stopped loading the dishwasher and looked at me