Rosa woke up at the rooster’s crow. Sitting up, she felt her blankets slide off her and onto the floor as she looked straight ahead. She felt the weak rays of the sunrise dance across her, and saw the mighty sun timidly peeking over the hills of her farm. Sunrise. That was good, that was nice.

            She used to have to get up before the sun rose to get everything ready in time. It was easier now, though, that Abuela was back and could help again. Rosa smiled and rose, her warm feet sliding into colorful sandals and dancing across the worn earthen brick floor. Loosing the tie of her nightgown, she pulled a simple dress, blue with red and yellow embroidery, out of her drawers and slipped it over her head, inhaling the scent of green coffee beans in every woven fiber that passed over her nose and mouth.

            Running her hands across the smooth wooden surface of her chest, Rosa picked up her brush and attempted to tame her curly mane in the cracked glass that hung crookedly above her clothes chest. Gathering her hair high on her head with one hand and reaching down into the chest with the other, she found a ribbon and wound it tightly around her gathered hair, tying it off with a bow. She let go of her hair, and the ribbon bore the weight of her bouncing curls, as it had every morning for more years than she could remember. The faded yellow bow smiled at her in the mirror, sitting just above her cascading curls and framed quite prettily by her highlighted brown hair. When she was younger, her hair had just been brown, but years of working in the sun had left memories of the sun’s kisses all across her head. She reached down once more and picked up a gold chain from which hung a golden rose, the last memory of her parents, the echoes of their love forever woven into it. She looked down at it hanging from her fingers, kissed it and whispered “I love you” to parents too far away to hear her. She fastened it around her neck, centered it between her clavicle, and headed downstairs for breakfast.

…

            Abuela was already up and cooking breakfast. Of course, she never slept now, and that had helped Rosa tremendously. Breakfast was ready; arepas and chorizo with a cup of strong coffee. Abuela smiled at Rosa gently, glad to see her, and then passed through the door towards the field, already starting work while Rosa was just sitting down to eat.

            “Gracias, Abuela”, Rosa called after gratefully as she slid into a bench too big for one person, with imprints and memories from generations past etched into the wood. The table, worn smooth by years of use, sat under the window. Sitting there one could look out over the fields and see the hundreds of plants all being cared for by her and Abuela. They hired help, of course, when it was harvest time, but for most of the year it was just her and Abuela in the fields. Before, it had been her and her brothers, running through the fields and hiding among the plants, refusing to listen when her parents called them home. They rolled down the hills and charged back up again, racing each other everywhere they went. When they would finally trudge home, long after dark, their skin was coated in the smell of the green coffee beans, and dried leaves were stuck all over them. She and her brothers would creep into the house, hoping to find food left out by Abuela, even if their parents had told her not to. Abuela could always be counted on for a few arepas and warm pot of rich hot chocolate.

…

            But that was years ago, before her parents had gotten sick and her brothers had left the fields for university. Then Abuela had come to help her in the fields, but she soon became too weak to help, and Rosa was left to tend to the fields by herself. She had tried, but it soon became too hard to do everything by herself, and before she knew it she had sold everything but the land closest to her house, the most manageable and accessible land for her to tend. Every plant, every square foot, every acre she had sold had caused her more pain then she thought possible, for it felt as if she were ripping out pieces of her soul with each sale. All the memories, the fiestas, siestas, and familia, all gone. Sold – and by her. She had failed them. She hadn’t meant to, but she had. The only way she had justified the sale was because the land went to a family friend, one who promised to sell the land back to her once she had the manpower. With few options, no money, and no help in sight, Rosa started counting the days until Abuela died. She didn’t mean to, she really didn’t – but she couldn’t help it; she had to do something to keep herself sane. The guilt, shame, and helplessness were so heavy that some days Rosa cried the whole time she was in the fields – each plant reminding her of exactly what she had lost.  

…

            The guilt of counting weighed on Rosa every minute of every day. She worked all day in the fields working to save her family’s farm, and then trudged back up the hill to her little house. She spent her nights waiting on Abuela, feeding her broth and plumping up her pillows filled with feathers she plucked monthly from their chickens. During the day, Abuela would embroider, cook, and clean – but there came a time when she could barely move anymore. Those last few months, Rosa ate nothing but tortillas and sopa, the last things Abuela had been able to make. Each step she took felt heavier, but each bean she harvested felt a little lighter. Rosa found that, horrible as it seemed, they balanced each other, these two, the guilt of waiting for Abuela’s death and the hope that the farm brought. The worrying never stopped, though; worrying about the farm, worrying about Abuela, worrying about what Abuela would decide.

Then, before she knew it, Rosa came home one day to a silent, cold, house – and no more Abuela. She entered Abuela’s little room, and saw only the outline of her body in yellow rose petals left on her sheets. She quietly gathered the sheet around the petals, and went out into the garden to bury them. Rosa held vigil until the sun showed its rosy face the next morning, long after her candles had burned out and her prayers had ceased to be coherent. She prayed with all her heart, just as she had when her parents died, that Abuela would come back. It hadn’t worked for her parents. But when Rosa woke that morning, she was in her own bed and breakfast was already cooking.

            And so she and Abuela had settled into an easy rhythm – Abuela worked through the nights, finishing what Rosa couldn’t. When Rosa would wake, breakfast would be ready – served by the silent espiritu of her abuela. That was what she missed most about her Abuela – espiritus never spoke or made noise. They were still the people you had loved, but you couldn’t talk to them. Having an espiritu in your house was both a blessing and a curse, but for Rosa it was much more a blessing than a curse. Abuela knew how much Rosa was responsible, and without any more physical constraints, she could work all night. Having Abuela around, Rosa was finally able to sleep at night, and soon the two of them were such an effective team that Rosa was able to start buying back her family’s land. Within two years of Abuela’s death, Rosa had bought back everything she had sold, and had established peace and sanity within her own life. Now, she ran one of the most successful single-family farms in her region. Yet even though Rosa was successful, she still felt lonely. For even though Abuela did her best to keep her company, Rosa couldn’t help but miss the days where her house seemed to have joy and love shining through every crack in the bricks, spilling out into the fields and bathing the plants with golden life.

            It was hard to have Abuela around but not be able to communicate – one of the curses of the espiritus. Once, on a rare trip to town, Rosa conferred with some old friends about what to do, and they told her about a language created by the local families to communicate with their espiritus. The language was composed of hand signals, and after meeting with those families, Rosa went back home and began to teach Abuela to sign. Within four years of Abuela’s death, Rosa and Abuela were fluently signing back and forward, for although Abuela could hear her just fine, Rosa though it rude to speak when Abuela couldn’t. After all, Abuela had come back for her. Rosa could make the effort.

…

            It had been twenty years since the death of her parents. Rosa and Abuela were still running the farm, but there had been new additions. Electricity had come to the town, but when espiritus passed through walls with electricity in them, they came out looking frazzled and in pain. So Rosa avoided the electricity, only installing a home phone with wires across the sky. Her younger brother had also come home, and he started a family on the hill next to hers. Soon, her sobrinos were running across the hill and through the fields just as she and her brothers had once done, and she would watch from her house and smile with fondness for them. She often stood in the door these days, watching as Abuela taught the children to sign among the coffee trees.

…

            It had been forty years since her parents passed. Rosa had long since achieved what she once thought impossible – she had her family’s farm back, and now there were families filling it with life, love, and laughter. She turned away from the fields and towards her house, where her husband and children were cooking together, enjoying the break from University. Brimming with life, they contrasted starkly against the ghost of Abuela, who had begun to be even more pale, if that was possible. Rosa began to worry about Abuela leaving again, because she didn’t think she could bear it if Abuela left before Rosa herself passed. Losing her once was hard enough, but even then she had known Abuela might come back. This time, though, there would be no return.

…

            It had been sixty years since her parents died. Rosa lay in her bed, listening to her daughter move around en la cocina. She was so, so tired, and so she let go…

            “Mama, mama, please….please come back to me.”

            Rosa opened her eyes to find herself in a field of roses – the flower her parents had named her for. There was a beautiful door in front of her – so enticing that she couldn’t tear herself away from it. But she could hear her daughter calling her….

…

            Rosa opened her eyes and saw her daughter kneeling on the ground, bent over a hole filled with yellow rose petals. Rosa turned, and saw Abuela kneeling next to her, keeping vigil. Rosa smiled and mouthed “thank you”, knowing that Abuela could read her lips even if she could not speak. As she looked at Abuela’s face, wrinkled and careworn and caressed with the same gentle smile that welcomed her every morning, Abuela whispered back “Goodbye, mija”, and disappeared gently into the heavens, maintaining eye contact even as the clouds behind her parted and the door appeared. This time, the door was open, and as Abuela turned to enter, Rosa saw the years wash away from her and could hear her beautiful laugh one last time before the door closed behind her and the clouds rolled back. Smiling, Rosa felt tears of joy roll down her cheeks as she looked to her daughter, knowing that she would carry on the tradition Abuela had started.