Antonia

4. In the shape of a sabre

"Juan," she said. Her eyes were glazed, and her forehead wet with perspiration. I jumped up, and stood by the bed.

She was calling our father.

"Mamá! It's me," I leaned closer and whispered. Her mouth was dry, and so I brought the Jesuit's Powder tea to her lips.

"Drink Mamá. You must get better!"

"Juan..."

The drink trickled down her chin and into the fold of her neck. I wiped her mouth and neck with a towel.

I didn't want to remind her that our father was in heaven, with the angels. She looked past me, as if I wasn't there.

I started to cry.

Just then, one of the tall shutters moaned slightly and opened, as though it had been pushed from the other side. A golden stream of sunlight fell across the stone floor in the shape of a sabre, and ended at my feet.

I was startled. I looked back and forth from my feet to the window. I knew that there was no breeze in the air yet, for Uncle Carlos had said so.

He'd complained about one of his boats at the port, which was filled with cacao and indigo. It was supposed to leave for Cádiz that morning. But it was moored because the wind had suddenly died down the night before, as if a storm were approaching.

I held fast to mother's hand and looked towards the window and listened. I heard nothing but the sound of the birds in the trees outside. I looked back at mother, and saw the trace of a smile on her lips.

She was gone.

Later, and for many years afterwards, I wondered whether our father's spirit had heard, and then answered her call. I recalled the sound of the shutter opening, like the deep exhale of a man in pain.

I saw the shape of the sunlight on the bedroom floor, like a curved sword pointing at my feet, and I wondered whether my dear father had been sending me a message as well.

[What do you think so far?!]