Page 67 of A Me and You Thing
I don’t want to make herfuriosa. Not after allTíaandTíohave done for me. I would be homeless without them. Nocasa.
My headache doesn’t hurt so much anymore.
“No sleep. You work,sí?”
“Sí, lo siento,Tía. Mi cabeza.” I run my hand over my forehead, hoping she’ll accept my apology. “Nobueno.”
“Hurt?”
I nod. “Sí.”
Tíapatsmimanothe way she always does to show her love. But if she is displeased, that pat will turn into a stinging slap. The round swollen joints of her fingers are like being hit by several small rocks at once. I don’t like to upset her.
She stands, her large form towering over me. “Ordeña las vacas. Truck to pick up thelechebe here soon.”
Yes, it’s time to milk the cows and take the large blue containers oflecheto the end of the road where the truck will pick them up.TíaandTíoneed the money from selling theleche. We save only a little for us and our needs.
“Ándale.”
I need to hurry or I’ll miss the truck. I don’t want to lose my place in theircasa.Tía’s manoscause her so much pain. She can’t milk the cows.
They need me.
I place the scarf onmicabezaand wrap a sweater around my shoulders. Fog is hanging over the mountains today. It’smuy fríoand I shiver. Once outside, I wrap my sweater around myself. The fog is like a blanket, covering me. I like thesilencio, the feeling of being alone and private.
I grab my stool and milk the cows while my mind turns off. I can work or I can think. Both at the same time are not possible for me. It’s one or the other.
I carry the large jugs oflechedown the dirt road, walking slowly, letting thefríoair calm my headache.
I love the sight of theverdemountains, the birds singing, and the fresh air.
No matter. I’m still trapped inside my black hole, seeing the world through a fuzzy filter, as if it’s all a mirage.
Why can’t I break free? Why can’t I climb out of the black hole?
I wish I could do something to helpTíaandTíolive a better life. I know I help them, but really they’re helping me.
A large white truck rumbles down the hill and honks twice, a greeting that announces his arrival to pick up theleche.
“Hola, Diego.”
Diego is an older man with leathery, wrinkled skin. He looks too elderly to drive the truck, but he’s here twice adía, rain or shine, sickness or health, picking up theleche. He’s always on time and he never misses adía.
He waves, but doesn’t really look at me. I go to the back of the truck and add my containers, switching them out for two empty clean and sanitized containers to use for the next batch of milk. Then I hit the side of the truck twice, letting him know I’m done and he can move on.
I stand on the dirt road and watch the truck drive away, as I always do. For some reason, watching people leave makes me feel odd... I think I feeltriste. Sad.
I’m not sure what emotion I feel.
Because I don’t feel. I feelnada. I’m not happy and I’m nottriste. I’m not angry and I’m not pleased. I don’t cry and I don’t laugh. I’m notcontentaand I’m not mad or upset.
I breathe in and out deeply. I’d better get back tola casa, to safety.TíaandTíodon’t like anyone to see me. The only time I’m allowed outside of their fenced property is when I deliver the milk containers. I know they worry about me and try their best to keep me free from harm. Living on the outside of town is peaceful, but the protection from the townspeople is harder to come by.Tíowarns me to bemuy cuidadosoeverydía.
I listen.
But I don’t feel scared because... I don’t feel fear.
“Niña!”
