Chapter IX The little girl and the mango tree
At the time I lived in León, and I happened to be at home with Grandmother. We were both outside on the beautiful southern patio of the house. Though the day had been unbearably hot, it was cool in the shade, amongst its many trees.
Some trees hold memories that go back for as long as they have lived. The tall mango tree, standing in the center of the courtyard, may have been the oldest in the house, yet it still remembered the little girl who once climbed to its top, daring the heights, as it came about, so many years before I was born.
Towards the front of the patio was a huge, bright green, metallic gate. It opened precisely across the street from doña Martina’s store, where we bought the corn tortillas; though perhaps not as fresh as the street vendor’s, still they definitely were quite tasty. The store also sold the white bread that Grandfather greatly enjoyed, with a thick slab of butter on the top, early mornings, with his breakfast.
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Chapters: In the land of volcanoes
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