She stares at the window. An apple tree is visible three blocks away. She swears it just moved closer.
Her fingers touch the largest apple. It is cold. It is warm. It is her mother’s perfume. It is the day she lost her keys. It is every door she never opened.
Tonight, she reaches out.
The town has begun to notice. Every time Nieves faints, an apple appears in her closed hand. Not the same apple. Different sizes, different shades. Once, a golden one that smelled of cinnamon.
A young Nieves, braids down to her waist. She is walking through her grandfather’s orchard. He is dead now, but in the memory, he is very much alive, whispering a warning in a language she has since forgotten. 13x22 Los desmayos de Dona Nieves-Las manzanas-...
The apple does not spin.
The air smells of cilantro, rust, and overripe plums. Doña Nieves enters, clutching her beaded purse like a rosary. She nods at Don Justo behind the counter. He nods back. They have performed this greeting for thirty years. She stares at the window
“I saw one without a stem,” she whispers.