The years passed, and fate put us to the test again.

The years passed, and fate put us to the test again.

First it was the workshop where I worked since I left high school. It closed from one month to the next, without decent settlement, with the boss swearing that “if things improved” he would call us again. He never called. Then my mother started to get sick more often from the pressure. Not serious, but enough for the drugs to become another impossible expense. The house, which had always been humble but tidy, began to look tired: leaks in rainy weather, paint peeling off in the kitchen, the refrigerator making the noises of an old animal before going out completely.

I was twenty-six years old and, for the first time, I understood in the body what the word ruin means. It’s not just not having money. It is to begin to measure oil, milk, gas and even dignity. It’s opening your wallet as if you were checking a wound. It is pretending in front of others that “everything is coming out” when at night you do the math with a notebook and end up erasing figures because no combination is enough.

Relatives, of course, appeared only to give their opinion.

“Your mother should never have brought the ex-convict into the house.

“Since that man returned, luck has turned around.

“There are families whom God tests…” and others to which he charges.

I would grit my teeth and leave. My mother didn’t even argue. I just put my head down and continued washing, cooking, mending. And my uncle, every time he heard one of those things, became even quieter. He did not respond. He did not defend himself. He just went out to the yard, grabbed the shovel and began to work the land as if there, burying seeds, he could also bury the shame that the others threw at him.

I got angry with him.

Not because of what he did fifteen years ago. That was already too far away, too mixed with stories that even I didn’t understand well. I was angry at his calmness. His way of holding on. While I felt that we were sinking, he continued to leave early, returning at noon with his boots full of dirt and a bag with seeds, used tools or pieces of wood that someone gave him. Sometimes he got odd jobs by carrying sacks or fixing fences. Other times he didn’t bring anything. And yet, when he arrived, the first thing he did was go to the garden.

That garden made me angry.

Not because it was big. They were just poorly defined cultivation beds behind the house, next to the old laundry room. There he planted tomatoes, chiles, mint, onions and some plants that I did not recognize. He took care of them as if they were a treasure. He removed grass from them, spoke softly to them, moved the earth with his fingers. And I, who couldn’t find a steady job, who saw my mother cutting pills to make them last more days, began to think that my uncle had lost a part of his head in prison.

One night I exploded.

It was after the electricity was cut off due to a delay of two bills. We had dinner in the dark, with a candle on the table and reheated beans. My mother tried to pretend as if nothing had happened, telling an old anecdote about my father to distract me, but I had anger in my throat. When I finished eating, I threw the spoon into the plate.

“And what good are those plants?” I blurted out, looking out at the courtyard. Are they going to pay us the debt? Are they going to turn on the spotlight? Are you going to buy my mom’s medicines?

My mother looked at me with immediate reproach.

“Don’t talk to your uncle like that.

But I couldn’t stop.

“No, Mom. It was good. Here everyone pretends that the garden is hope and I don’t know what. We have been falling apart for months. I go out to look for work and nothing. You pawning earrings. And he… He seems to live in another world.

My uncle put the cup down slowly on the table.

He didn’t get angry.

He did not raise his voice.

He just looked at me with tired eyes that, for the first time, didn’t seem resigned but determined.

“Come with me tomorrow,” he said. I want to show you something.

I laughed, dry, without desire.

“What?” Your miracle plants?

My mother was going to shut me up, but he raised his hand.

“Tomorrow, at dawn,” he repeated. If after that you want to continue hating me, do it with pleasure.

I didn’t answer.

I went to sleep with my rage still burning, listening to the hollow hum of the house without electricity and the distant song of the dogs. I thought about not getting up. I thought about standing him up out of pride. But at half past five in the morning, when I heard the patio door open and his footsteps moving away, something was stronger than anger: curiosity.

I went out.

The air was cold and smelled of wet earth. My uncle was already in front with a lamp, an old backpack on his shoulder and the usual faded cap. He didn’t say good morning to me. He just beckoned me to follow him. We walk along the sidewalk behind the town, the one that passes by the dry stream and then climbs between nopales and mesquites. The sky was barely clear in the east.

I was in a bad mood.

“If this is to teach me more plantings, I warn you that I am not in the mood.”

He smiled slightly, without turning.

“No. This no longer fits in pots.

We continued walking for more than half an hour. We crossed a fallen gate that I had never seen, then an abandoned lot with old wires and, at the end, a narrow road between guamúchil trees. Suddenly, the landscape opened up.

I stood still.

In front of me, stretching down a small ravine, was a huge piece of land. Not a little bit. Not just any plot. Entire rows of fruit trees, beehive boxes painted white, perfectly marked furrows and, in the background, a low block construction with a new tin roof. Everything was clean, worked, alive.

I blinked several times, not understanding.

“What… What is this?

My uncle turned to me at last.

“What I’ve been planting.”

I didn’t even know what face to put on it. I burst out of sheer disbelief.

“What do you mean what you’ve been planting?” Where did all this come from?

He advanced a few steps towards the first row of trees. He ran his hand over the leaves with a care that gave me a strange feeling, almost of embarrassment and admiration at the same time.

“When I got out of prison,” he said, “I knew that no one was going to trust me with even a soft drink. Your mother was the only one who opened the door for me. I couldn’t repay him with words. I was too old for that. So I started looking for another way.

He bent down, took a fist of dirt and showed it to me.

“This was dry mountain years ago. Nobody wanted it because it didn’t have enough for corn and because the owner went north and died without returning. The land was left in dispute. I knew the son. I found it. I proposed to work on it in exchange for a part and to buy it little by little.

I stared at him.

“Buying with what money?”

He smiled sideways.

—With the little he collected in the odd jobs. With what I saved in there by sewing sacks and making furniture. So I got paid to fix fences. With what you didn’t see because I preferred that you continue to think that I only planted chiles behind the house.

I froze.

Not because it all suddenly made sense. On the contrary. Because I realized how many things I hadn’t wanted to see.

My uncle continued walking and I followed behind, as if dazed.