And there Esmeralda stood waiting...

And there Esmeralda stood waiting

For what, nobody knew. Her body worn-down from many years of walking up and down the centuries-old stone pathways, her feet full of calluses and nobody in her life to rub them soft. How did life turn out this way? So difficult to just get water for the day, much less silver coins to buy quesillo at the market.

Where was there to go, really? She's been surrounded by ancient reminders that almost everything comes and goes – the needs for living stayed the same – food, water, paying the rent, and some laughter in-between. Love – well that’s a fleeting fancy. Roberto, Ricardo, Rodrigo – all had their day and good riddance. Their promises carried too many strings of having to endure their hot-headed dreams that were going nowhere on a donkey’s back ass.

It’s a shame with Esmeralda. She’s become what all women around here become. Alone, hardened, withered and no place to be but behind the loom, weaving blankets for tourists who believe she loves her quaint and simple life. They don’t look deeper into her eyes and notice that she’s somewhere else as she ties the ends of the threads, wishing that this was the last blanket she made in her life, her hands aching so much from overworking.

Youth seems to be a mockery at this age – wisdom from the elders merely given to warn the young ladies that, yes, one day, this is your fate, too, my dear, so don’t get too haughty about your fine figure. The men around here break hearts like their breaking beer bottles.

Oh, yes, the women here once had high hopes and dreams, too. Now we’ve shriveled down to the bare bones truth that no one will save our town – no matter how much money or ideals they’re carrying. They don’t have the heart to tell their granddaughters what sourness lies ahead for them from the moment they are born. The grandmothers do well feigning smiles every birthday – pretending for the sake of celebration, that there are blessings to being human. Who could have the heart to tell the truth of life to an 8-year-old girl who loves pink balloons and chocolate frosting?

There seems to be no cure for Esmeralda’s waiting. Every sunset her figure fades into the turquoise wall by the back door of her house, where the chips of paint are peeling off more and more as each day passes. Her shadow we’ve grown to know better than her. We leave plates of food for her, our only offering. But we respect her enough to do it quietly without her knowing who left them there. One day we know we’ll find the plate still there. And perhaps, then, Esmeralda won’t be waiting any longer.