Ana Amate

Ana

She smells like an olive tree. Her olive skin has wrinkled defining even more her Andalusian features, her perfect nose, her thin lips, and her once black hair. She wears long gold earrings. She has warts over her eyelids that have grown with time. It makes me feel that what she has witnessed in her life changed her. Her hair is gathered in a bun. She always wears an apron pinned on her chest and tied at the back like a precious gown, which makes her clean, laborious. Her fingers are diligent and gentle. When she cooks stews or pulses with parsley, rosemary, clove, paprika, garlic, bay leaves. And I eat her food, dipping bread in the sauce until the plate is wiped clean.

She tells stories, which fill your lungs with fear and outrage but ,above all, unconditional love for all those she knew. She walks slowly but firmly, her long skirt as she walks gives life to   the asphalt on the roads and the fallen leaves.

 She wears slippers and a blue felt dressing gown when she crosses the road to buy her bread, milk and an occasional bottle of wine. She sits in her armchair,  looking  at the TV through the corner of her eye, resting her hands on the radiator, feeling the sleep conquering the hours. But, when she smiles her eyes dissipate all wrongdoing. And then I know how much she loves me.