To be honest, I’m not the type of person who usually offers help to neighbors. But that summer morning, as the sun began to slowly rise over the red-tiled roofs of the Colonia Americana in Guadalajara and my father’s old lawnmower puffed stubbornly in my hands, something changed.
I was standing by the white-painted iron fence when I saw her on the other side. Her name was Elena Ramírez. In the neighborhood, everyone knew her simply as “Mrs. Elena from the house at the end of Jacarandas Alley.” At 52, she possessed an elegance typical of Mexican women: dark hair with a few silver strands neatly gathered, and deep brown eyes that reflected experience and quiet contemplation. My mother said she had been a literature professor at the University of Guadalajara. After her husband died following a long illness, she had gradually withdrawn from the world. Even so, she retained a serene magnetism, a beauty that didn’t attract attention loudly, but rather deepened with time.
—Diego—her voice crossed the fence, soft and warm like the morning breeze.
I turned off the lawnmower and wiped the sweat from my forehead.
-Yeah?
—I think my lawnmower just gave up too. Could you take a look at it? If you have a moment.
It was the first time I’d seen her smile so closely. She no longer seemed like the reserved woman everyone hesitated to bother. She was holding a glass of hibiscus water, and there was a slight hesitation in her eyes.
It looked real.
