She was eleven years old when she noticed there was something odd about the movements of her oldest sister, Narda, who would take a little package and some soap chips to the river, the kind of things people used to bathe on Sundays and festival days. She piled everything up neatly on a smooth stone, in a secluded spot, but Nela could smell it and follow it from a certain distance. In her nostrils she felt a certain tickle and a scent somewhere between iron and vanilla that seemed so delectable. She thought Narda must have a dead bird or a cream cake, both of which she really loved, hidden away for herself, and she moved closer, without making a sound, just like she always walked, circling the places she went to. She hardly ever walked up to them in a straight line.

What do you have hidden there, Narda? And Narda jumps, You really scared me, you know. One of these times you’ll be the death of me. Her wet hand was on her chest, trying to control her heart, which was beating wildly. What is it?, repeats Nela. They’re my rags. You have rags? Yes, can you see? You’ll have to use them soon, too. For what? For the monthly blood, don’t you know? Come, I’ll explain it to you.

Blood. Every month. And between your legs, attached, a soft rag, delicate, that you take care of and must wash in the river as if it were a soft, precious jewel. She explained to her how every twenty-eight days her body would celebrate itself by producing blood from her belly. That it was necessary to contain it because on contact with the light it could melt ice, soften bread, curdle milk and ruin the dough. And no man could see it, smell it, know it was there. Nor hear it being discussed. For men, it was something that did not exist. Ever.

And I won’t die, even if I bleed?, asked the girl. Narda laughed. Look at me, am I dead?