Translated by Marvin Najarro
In other times she would have bought guavas in the village for diez len (ten cents) each, big beautiful guavas the size of her hand, but instead these guavas churucas (wrinkled) of today are a sorry sight, overpriced like everything else, nowadays even the air we breathe is expensive, Toña reflects, while trying to make ends meet.
She feels like drinking hibiscus punch; she always finds the two-pounds bags on the bottom shelves, near the green beans and beets. Although she usually shops quickly, today Toña wants to walk through the supermarket aisles and be disappointed by the colorless and tasteless fruits, which remind her that everything is ephemeral, except for the pesticides that are here to stay. But anyway, she comforts herself, in other times she had healthy teeth, today she has a denture that is too big for her.
As she walks by the shelf of beets, she grabs three of them, which she will boil and then eat them in slices with lemon and salt. She is in the middle of that when she came across the shelf with the celery, the cilantro, the carrots, the watercress and the lettuce.
Lettuces of all kind that she has been buying for years for her salads, even when she was told to boil lettuce and drink the infusion before going to bed to help her with her insomnia, but it was a tall tale, either she is hard as a rock or the tea was too weak. What it did help her was to boil the skin of a banana, it made her to sleep for twelve hours, what she had never slept in her life.
The smell of freshly wet soil fills her nose; her feet begin to sink into the loose soil. She is struggling to catch her breath, she needs air, she is gasping for air.
She staggers, and with great difficulty she grabs the edge of the shelf. She feels dizzy, what’s happening to her? What’s that feeling? Is she going to have a heart attack? No, not there, far away, where no one knows her and no one can send her body back to her village.
Her feet keep sinking into the wet soil until she falls on her backside amid the lettuce furrows. Her hands have shrunk and her skin has darkened, she touches her chest and she is wearing a huipil, where are her shoes? Her hair is black and long and, on her head, she is carrying a basket with lunch for her father and brothers who are clearing the weeds. She is a girl, and she is in her native Zunil in her beloved Quetzaltenango. And she has teeth!
She takes the basket down, cuts the most mature lettuce leaves, and cleans them with her apron. She takes a lemon cut in half and a bag of salt from the basket, and begins to enjoy her handful of leaves. While her father and brothers eat lunch she walks among the furrows. With her feet covered in mood, she helps to clear the weeds, but she also takes the opportunity to cut more lettuce leaves. The mist embellishes the fields, and as far as she can see it is all full of crops. Vegetables are her entire horizon. The hills shelter her childhood.
The lettuces are big, like soccer balls, beautiful, fresh. She has regained the rhythm of her breathing, and before experiencing another fainting spell, she takes a head of lettuce and leaves the supermarket. While the hibiscus is boiling, Toña cuts the cucumbers, onions, and tomatoes, and tears the lettuce leaves. She cleans the table and covers it with a tablecloth that her aunt sent her; it is her aunt’s favorite tablecloth, and she treasures it as her most cherished legacy; she takes care of it like the apple of her eyes. Before eating, she expresses her gratitude for having the opportunity to save money for her denture so she can chew well.
As she enjoys her salad, she looks out the window and sees los mishitos (the pappus of the dandelion) floating in the air. it is June and the cicadas sound begins to harmonize with the setting sun.
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Ilka Oliva-Corado