Chelita's Lovers
Translated by Stephanie Lawyer
I found my Aunt Chelita in her garden, seated in her rocking chair and watching dusk fall, and still clutching her cup of morning coffee. Her moments of lucidity were fewer and fewer, she did not always remember me, she was not always capable of starting a conversation. When I tried to take the cold cup from her hands, she gripped it tighter and turned to look at me, confused. I let go. I’m not sure she recognized me, but I withdrew my hands from her lap and smiled to reassure her. She smiled back shyly before turning her gaze to the horizon again.
“Cold cups of coffee are like old lovers,” she said without looking at me. “Sometimes they cross your path, you take a sip, and they seduce you all over again, you feel desired again. At others,” she went on, “all you get is an icy, bitter taste. That’s when you know you can toss the coffee down the drain without any sense of remorse, and grind some beans to make it again.” I didn’t know how to respond to that, but I realized that she wasn’t expecting an answer either.
When Chelita died, a couple of weeks later, I found cold cups of coffee scattered all over her house. Two on the dresser, one on the way downstairs, three in the kitchen, six between the living and dining rooms, one in the bathroom, four empty cups in the sink, and to my surprise the coffeepot in pieces.
