The shadow of the mountains in Inde town

There were about ten of us kids, being my sister the eldest at the time, not even 16 years old.  We ran to the ice cream vendor, who was riding his rusted old tricycle down the road.  Some of us skipping, others splashing on puddles and mud, that the heavy afternoon rain had left behind.

Licking multicolor popsicles that slowly melted through our sticky fingers, we sat on the curb and watched horses, dogs, chickens and children pass by, no car could be seen in the small vintage town.  Looking east, the plaza could be seen, with iron benches secured to the ground. Looking west, the mountains; low enough that anyone brave enough could climb, prepared to find snakes and cacti – wearing shorts or sandals was never a wise idea.

Electricity was still not available to everyone, so it became dark in no time and we all run inside to our parents. Once in pajamas, we gathered around on the twin beds pushed against each other, to masochistically listen to the supernatural stories my aunt had to tell.  With tears in our eyes, we heard about dishes breaking in the past while -no one- was in the kitchen, doors creaking, dragged furniture, shadows, all sorts of things her family had experienced generation after generation under that same roof.

As a result, nobody was willing to go to the washroom, located across the large, immense looking central patio.  All the rooms connected one another, in the old brick house, yet precisely the washroom had to be built absurdly that far.

“Mom, can you PLEASE come with me to the washroom?” my cousin begged her mother.  But two were not enough to fight fear, so few trios took turns, running to and from, nervously laughing and squeezing each other’s arms.

We must have fallen asleep most likely praying, and morning came, loud and bright, as to reassure nothing like that could ever happened.  

© Irene Zúñiga 2017