Once, as we were leaving the hospital, she took my hand and said to me in a soft voice:

I did.

And the next day as well.

Her health began to worsen quickly.

She could hardly get up by herself.

Her breathing came in small, struggling efforts.

One morning the doctor at the community clinic pulled me aside and told me bluntly,

“She’s very weak. I don’t think she has much time left.”

That afternoon, leaving the clinic, I helped her slowly into a taxi. Doña Carmen stayed quiet, looking out the window as if she were seeing a city that no longer belonged to her.

Before getting out in front of her house, she said,

“Diego… when I die, don’t let them throw away my things without checking the wardrobe.”

I felt a blow in my chest.

“Don’t say that.”

“Promise me.”

That word again.

And again, I nodded.

The last two weeks were very hard.