a yerba mate gourd

On the middle shelf is a mate gourd, of the type used to drink yerbe mate in Argentina and other pars of southern South America. The styling of this particular vessel would indicate its origins to be eastern Uruguay, though it’s difficult to be sure. The gourd is covered in dark violet leather and stained on the inside from years of use, though dry and cracked from subsequent years of non-use, sitting in the cabinet in the dessicated air of the house. Stamped on the shrivelled outer surface are the letters “J.R.O.” in an elaborate and flowery script.

I remembered Corin, in the old days, carrying it around the house with her thermos full of just-below-boiling water, offering it to guests when they stopped by, as is the custom, and then sipping herself from the intricately carved silver bombilla. After Papa died she stopped using it, as well as all other stimulants and mood-altering substances.

The day after finding the strangly formed spiderweb, but still some days before Corin disappeared, I noticed the bombilla, which had always rested gleaming in the gourd, was missing. I’m not sure why its absence drew my attention in those hectic days; Lord knows there were enough other things on my mind.

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