Today is Good Friday. For us, for Lorry and me, this marks our 46th year together.
We do not celebrate the day we were married in June, 1969, but rather the day we met and had our first date in the Gallinas Canyon outside of Las Vegas, New Mexico. Some friends had a campfire by the river but we chose to climb above to the bare rocks where the ancient flume wound around the cliff walls. We sat inside the flume, the old water-carrier, which was built like an endless trough. We sat holding hands watching the campfire burn below and hearing the laughter of our friends.
We watched the moonrise. Then we heard voices, singing. It was hard to tell what it was at first. It wasn't our friends. The singing came from far far away. At last, we knew. There was a morada on the other side of the canyon. Hidden away, secret. The singing came, it seemed, from somewhere, nowhere. A song from the Dark Ages etched in stone, in flesh.
Once again on Holy Thursday, the Penitentes were re-enacting the crucifixion. Devout, strained voices came and went on the wind. Moorish chants from another time, a world away. We sat quiet, listening,
penitents ourselves. Holding hands, in love. In canyon time.