The Women

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“How do you know it is love?” Anna asked. “I’m so confused.”

“If you are confused,” her sister groused, “then it is not love. You would know, is or isn’t.”

“That isn’t so,” their mother interjected. Sofia took Anna by the hand and led her to sit at the table out at the veranda. They’d just had a breakfast of bread and butter, but the sparrows had already landed to snatch up the last crumbly morsels in the beaks and bounce off again. Sofia placed her hand palm-down on the clean threadbare tablecloth. Anita snatched up the broom and pretended to clean the floor, but her attention was zoned in on the two seated women.

“How do you feel?” Sofia asked.

“Breathless,” Anna said.

“Lung disease,” Anita sniffed.

“And?”

“My heart races with the pace of uncle Tony’s fingers on the conga.”

“Atrial flutters.”

“And I can’t think straight. I put the bread in the icebox and shooed the cat into the closet.”

“What else?” Sofia pressed.

Anita shot her sister a jealous glare. “Amnesia.”

“That’s it?”

“The first thing on my mind when I wake up and the last thing that I think of to steal with me in my dreams. I don’t know how I can continue with this any longer.”

Sofia smiled and tapped her daughter’s cheek. “So much emotion wasted on a new dress. But, then again, you’ve always had to make-do with you sister’s.” Anna blushed. Anita froze, the broom nearly falling from her grasp. Sofia raised her eyebrows and shed a smile on her older daughter. “Imagine if she falls for a man.”

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