The miracle from the light flooding the kitchen had passed, and everything was silent at the house. Mother sewed, Father sat by the radio at the end of his day, and Tía Cecilia brewed her strong afternoon coffee while I continued to draw.
My third birthday that February came without a celebration, but the arrival of las tías from the farm on that same day felt like a gift to me. Tía Nereida left the next morning with Mother in tow, but Tía Dulce stayed behind. Everything changed overnight.
My memories of what followed are brief, but clear flashes in time as I remember being held, being fed, feeling safe, singing songs, and clapping my hands to a rhyme whose words I can no longer recall.
Tía Dulce was the first adult to ever take me to play on the swings, the slides, and the enormous sandbox at the one corner of the nearby park. I felt great happiness being with her at the park.
Those days when Mother was away were the peaceful days when Father sat at the edge of my bed. Without speaking while rubbing my back, slowly, gently, and with kindness and heart, he stayed with me until sleep easily came.
But Mother eventually returned from the farm with Papá at her side, and those happy days were replaced with slow, solemn days after Tía Dulce stepped back and allowed Mother to return to her role. Mother was cold and detached; she was like a stranger to me.
They were also the days when Papá stayed with us for a time, and I felt boundless joy whenever he sat me on his lap and bounced me up and down on his knee, laughing with me.