Whenever it rains, it means it’s time to celebrate. Celia picks her child up; she makes him wrap his tiny legs around her waist and he clings to the left side of her body as she rushes inside the kitchen. She sets the water to boil and pours some coffee in it. It brews slowly and she smiles as the smell spreads all over the small house. She sighs resigned when her baby cries; she coos him, trying to make him stop. She succeeds.

Her husband is long gone to the fields. He didn’t have anything to eat before leaving—as usual­—but he’ll be back soon, she mused; and then, they’ll have some meat and the four of them, yes, even their unborn son—or daughter—will last for a little longer. They will grow old and strong and their family will always be together. They will be fine.

The coffee is finally ready. She pours some in a cup and tastes it. She looks for the chocolate she made powder during the last moon and takes a pinch of it, putting it on her coffee. She inhales the steam coming from her cup and smiles.

Outside, the rain keeps falling and yet she feels warm thanks to her baby next to her and her drink in her hand. It has been raining since the night before. Their hearts have been filled with joy by such a simple act. She knew that by now, the other women in the village must be getting ready to meet at the main square and dance in celebration. Celia reprimands herself; she must be getting ready as well.

It will be a good year, after all.



June 11, 2thousand11


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