I grew up knowing those words because my mother,
who never went anywhere,
went to Madrid on her honeymoon,
and stopped in Ávila, cradle of Saint Teresa,
whom she did not think much of.
But they visited caves there,
where dripping calcite had done a number.
Mother had not seen anything like that before or since.
Even when, on the return journey,
they veered east and toured the Altamira Caves,
where she laid eyes on the stunning polychrome bison
dating from the Paleolithic—a drawing so precious
the cave was closed to the public soon after.
I learned of that visit much later, stung with jealousy.
Oh yeah, she said, that old doodle of clay.
But those stalactites and stalagmites,
she could talk about them forever—
weeping limestone still glinting in her eyes.
I wonder whether she was prescient
about her young marriage,
or only noticing what was already forming:
not the blind sacrifice of saints,
no expectations of ecstasy,
not the value of history or prehistory.
Just the slow insistence of water,
working through drudgery and abrasion,
shaping something luminous and hidden.
First appeared in Gyroscope Review, Summer ’26