@loretosocorro, writer
For many years the smell of coffee in the morning brightened the day before and during the daily work at the tomato packer.
She enjoyed when she put her hands in the coffee bags that her grandmother ordered for the whole family. Like someone who does something forbidden, she breathed in the perfume, seized between her fingers, before putting the seeds in the grinder. And there, going round and round, he invented rhymes and spicy songs with which he annoyed his sisters. He said that those grains had the power of immortality because they were capable of pulling minutes, hours ... days out of your sleep. She revered him so much that her bag was dotted with roasted beans that protected her better than red ribbons or crossed ones.
When her grandmother died, Marcelina stopped believing in coffee. He stayed alert with stewed water and exchanged cafeomancy for the horoscope.
The grounds from her grandmother's last cup of coffee whispered to her that she and the old woman were going to share important moments. That vision of a long life with his grandmother was a deception that was not going to forgive the aromatic sediment. The night at the wake was long and it served to break definitively: he threw away all the grains that he was walking around in his pockets, in his bag, hanging next to the neckline. His unbalanced heart did not gush more caffeine. The young hands became experts in rubbing dried chamomile and their viperine tongue began to seek power by practicing teasing. Without the bitter coffee, Marcelina lost the last embers of sweetness.
Every night when she finished her work, she passed the cemetery with her friends and sisters.
«Little girls, we are going to have coffee at my grandmother's new house ...»
While she laughed confidently, the rest of the women crossed themselves in disgust and with their heads bowed.
It happened that one afternoon, when Marcelina was working overtime, she had to go back alone. Night fell on her and, as she passed by the side of the cemetery, she heard being called. She stopped and looked back thinking that one of her friends, perhaps, was coming behind but she didn't see anyone so she kept on going until she heard his name again. It was a familiar voice, her grandmother's clucking:
«Marcelina, my girl, come and have a drink at the new house«.
