Su voz

Su voz

2025

I went into the kitchen to get some agua fresca. That room used to be the TV room when I was a child. As I stepped inside, I felt a presence. She was there—behind me. Aunt Adela. She had followed me because, like me, she was craving a moment alone.

We were visiting her—my parents and I. I hadn’t seen her in a while, though somehow she had followed me through the years, in towns I’d never known before, her scent appearing in a monastery or a garden.

I was overwhelmed with nostalgia, thinking of the many hours I’d spent in that room under her care. But before I could speak, she said, “I remember you here as a child… watching Peanuts.”

The cups were still the same, along with the bowls, the juice glasses—her trinchador still intact.

“The room smells the same,” I said. “Even though it’s a kitchen now.” She looked at me. “You’ve grown into a decent man. I knew you would. Even when you were a child.”