The Hilot

   The wrinkles in her face always seem like she's asking a question. And maybe she is, I don't speak the language. The clothes she wears say she's ready for bed, maybe a poor old mystic, but the ring on her finger at least suggests business in good. I speak through people who know my first language as their second and I don't know what exactly is being told. I'm here for the experience at worst and maybe her magic will work at best. I injured my thumb at work a month ago. What happened is unimportant and confusing to tell. What's important is that the pain in my thumb is still there and a mild inconvenience. We sit around the farmhouse occupied with our own means. The housewives watch Filipino soap operas in the living room, every other sentence they speak is in laughter. The men catch up over the flame of a mosquito candle outside. Me, I drink coffee and listen to histories from a man representing the old generation. A commotion stirs from the front door and I watch an old woman sit down on the couch. I hear from Lolo Renee: “The hilot is here.” I don't see much of what she does to the first person to sit with her, but I sit and continue my chat with Renee knowing I'm next. After a while, the story of his time working in New York is cut short with a room of people calling my name. I sit and look at the hilot and she looks back and already I feel like I'm doing something wrong. A hilot is a healer, a mystic. In American terminology, a witch doctor. Depending on the hilot, they use a mixture of basic, rudimentary physical therapy message and either Catholic prayer or tribal wordspeak older than Spanish reign. I give her my arm and try my best to explain the pain and she goes to work. She uses a small bottle filled with some sort of oil and bits of something unidentifiable floating inside and rubs it down my arm. The hilot whispers to each glob of oil she holds in her hand, but I can't hear her so I don't know where her faith rests. Every once and a while, she has me roll my hand along a glass Coke bottle as hard as I can. She uses the bottle to rub along my arm and message my hand. I'm told to make punching movements. All-in-all the whole thing lasts 5 to 10 minutes and I'm back on my feet with an arm slicked in oil. I bend my thumb and it actually feels fantastic. No pain takes my thoughts to visions of more doctor visits on my employer's dime. I've been cured. When Nicole lays on the couch the hilot gets to work on her bum knee, rubbing oil on her legs and messaging her feet. From time to time, the hilot looks over at the TV and watches the soap opera that's been left on like she did with me. When Nicole gets up from the couch she bends her leg and again, all is well. We go to bed towards midnight and wake to the sound of several roosters screaming for superiority around 5. I open my eyes and hold my hand up to my face, bending my thumb. The pain is still there. I should've told the hilot there was something wrong with my feet and opted for a foot-rub instead.