Once I had a she-piglet. Her name was Viola because of her purple color. She was tiny and cheerful, and would curl her tail in a waving lock whenever I came back from school.

My grandmother would tend to her and the pigs in the sty.

In the early November afternoon, we would pick acorns in a metal bucket and would feed the pigs.

This happened every day until I came back but Viola was dead. A lorry had run over her, my grandmother said, wiping a tear in her eye.

Under the branches of the old oak tree, I closed my eyes and prayed and prayed that Viola would be back. I kept my eyes shut for a long time. I pressed them tightly and never answered my grandmother’s call, not even at supper time.

Moss started creeping up on my body and the branches of the old oak turned into arms that enveloped me.

Before I knew it, I was travelling down, below the ground, between the oak’s twisted roots, down to a dark, dark cave.

I faltered once or twice before I came to a rock hall lit with millions of candles.

There, an old woman with grey locks and a green cape was lighting up a new candle for each one that went out. She looked up and smiled.

I opened my eyes wide:

“Granny, what are you doing here?”

She showed me all the candles: there were small ones, tall ones, and mere stubs.

“These are the lives of all creatures on Earth. When one goes out, I make sure another one gets lit up”—she said.

I asked to be shown mine: it stood tall like a lean tower, burning bright.

Then, I asked to see Viola’s: it was a smoldering stub and my grandmother was about to throw it away.

I held her arm:

“Melt it and pour the wax in the container of my candle, so that our lives will be one and our candle will burn for a long, long time.”

My grandmother nodded and complied. Then she said:

“Go back now. When your time is up, I’ll come for you.”

***

When I opened my eyes under the oak tree, I held Viola in my arms. She licked my cheek.

I went home. Granny wasn’t there. I never saw her again.

I am very old now, the age my grandmother was then.

Viola is an old, huge sow, with meek blue eyes. I love the feel of her warm tongue on my hand.

I know my time is almost up.

I will be ready when my grandmother comes.

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