The Letter on the Fridge

I met Carmen at the shop of an Argentine girl I used to help out with the counter twice a week, in her little business in a town about 30 km from Barcelona. A town that seemed stuck in time, where it was hard to believe that, so close to one of the most cosmopolitan cities in the world, there still lived that small-neighborhood feel, where everyone knew everyone.

That afternoon, I said goodbye to her like always. I hugged her and gave her lots of kisses on her wrinkled cheek, I loved that grandmotherly perfume smell she had. I used to tell her she was the prettiest lady in the neighborhood, and she'd say "but how affectionate you are with this little old woman, child." She left the shop slowly, wearing an impeccable blue blouse with little white flowers, a skirt that fell below the knee, a pair of clip-on pearl earrings, and her hair perfectly done with hairspray. That day her eyes drooped a little, and her look was different.

I remember I tucked her oranges under the seat of her walker because they were too heavy. Before she left, she told me she was sad. That was unusual for Carmen — I had never seen her sad. Every Tuesday and Thursday she'd come visit me and we'd talk for hours. She'd tell me stories from her years in Barcelona and everything she'd left behind in Ceuta. She'd talk to me about Fernando, her life partner, about how much she missed him since he'd passed; I can almost still hear her telling me, with her crisp Spanish z's, how lucky she felt to have found the love of her life. She'd get emotional saying his name, but right after she'd crack a few dirty jokes to lift the mood, and we'd end up dying of laughter. She'd ask me if I missed my country, and tell me to comb my hair, that she couldn't understand how my hair could always be so "messhhy."

Every week she brought me a gift, a little something. Homemade gazpacho, a small piece of Coca de Sant Joan, rice pudding, or the most delicious rice casserole I've ever tasted in my life. The first casserole she brought me made me hug her until she nearly ran out of breath — she'd bring it to me in a deep dish covered with a pot lid, along with a spoon, a fork, and a small piece of freshly baked bread. When I lifted the lid it was a celebration of colors and aromas, but above all, of love, 12,000 kilometers from my home, some magic hands had made that just for me. That first time she brought me food, I washed the dish to return it to her at our next meeting, and I wrote her a little thank-you note and tucked it inside the dish, under the lid, so she'd read it once she got home. The following week she thanked me for it, and brought me homemade bread.

But that day was different — she didn't tell me any spicy stories, nor did she make her usual joke about the Moroccan man next door coming into the shop to buy things he already had in his own store, just because he wanted to marry me. She only told me that, that she was sad, that it was a hard date, that she missed Fernando. We said our goodbyes and she left, pushing that cart as best she could, its wheels rattling over the grooves in the sidewalk, and I lost sight of her as she turned the corner.

That night I got a message. I was sitting on the balcony of my place in Barceloneta when the shop owner let me know that my dear Carmen had passed away. She died in church, she had gone to pray for Fernando — that very day marked two years since he'd left. It was as if it were meant to be: she no longer wanted to go home without him.

The following week at the shop, there were moments I felt she was about to appear, dragging her cart along to come sit with me in the shade. To my surprise, it was Carmen's daughter who showed up instead. I only knew her by name, since Carmen always used to talk about her. She had come to see me. And she told me something that moves me just to remember it. Carmen, she said, had never learned to read or write, so on every visit she would ask her daughter to read aloud the letter I'd written all that time ago — the one where I told my dear friend how much I loved her — the same letter she kept stuck to the fridge with a magnet.