LatinosUSA

It’s a light that manifests itself without force, like a tiresome fly that circles again and again, waiting for the mess it inhabits to end—I thought.

Yesterday, as I crossed the street, I noticed my shoe wasn’t clean. The mud from the unpaved road, after a long rain, bothered me. Big cities have water and castor oil in their homes—I said softly. By midday, the straw in the barn will be gone, and the promised great harvest year will be a brief and enviable adventure. I didn’t want to faint, nor let myself be dragged down by unease; instead, I walked two blocks, dodging mud, to find Emiliano C.’s farm in this part of town—on the outskirts, we have all the disadvantages and pay the same as in the center. He was with the animals; I went in through the side, called his name, and a giant of a man greeted me. He was grumpy, the tractor seemed dead, and the cow in the back was longing to stop giving milk.

“Problems,” he said.

I told him the year had been rough and that I wouldn’t have enough straw for the rest of the winter. He simply replied, “It’ll be a surprise if everything goes well.” I took comfort in seeing him in the same predicament and mentally tallied my savings, then said, “I might need enough for a month or two.” He understood and said, “Don’t worry, my animals won’t eat it all.” I stayed there helping him with the tractor, and inexplicably, its engine started again. Before leaving, I glanced toward his kitchen, empty and deserted since his wife’s death, and asked, “Would you like me to cook for you?” “No.” And she added:

#When life changes for single men—from the countryside—they become widowers.#

On the way back, no mud or anything like that, a woman like me, divorced and full of life, had to allow herself the return of that feeling. I looked to my right; a long, dense, green forest moved in time with a light breeze, as if fearing that this winter would return with more cold and rain.

“My heart loves spring,” —I thought.