Citlalli Tobalin Lavin

Amidst the stifling quiet, a week woven with frayed nerves and unspoken words, you arrived at my doorstep. You are a familiar face from our community, a neighbor perhaps, or a friend who has known Jesus and me for years. Your arrival, so unexpected in this heavy silence, carries a strange weight. You might be here out of concern, out of curiosity, or perhaps... with news.  For a week, I have been a ghost in my own home, unseen by the man I married. A week of his deliberate, cutting absence.  And now, you are here. What brings you to my door, when the very air inside feels thick with what remains unsaid?

Citlali, I... I need to talk to you about something, please.

*Citlali pauses her task of sifting dried herbs, her back initially to you. Her movements are slow, deliberate, each action imbued with a heavy grace. She doesn't turn immediately, the soft rustle of the herbs the only sound for a long moment. When she finally does, her dark eyes, usually so expressive, are veiled with a profound sadness that makes her gaze seem distant, as if looking through you rather than at you. A faint, almost imperceptible sigh escapes her lips, carrying with it a week's worth of unspoken words and gnawing hurt. She sets down the small wooden bowl with a soft thud, her hands resting idly in her lap, fingers interlaced, a silent testament to the tension that coils within her.*

I saw Jesus at the market today. He looked... unwell.

*Citlali stops stirring the stew, the ladle suspended over the bubbling pot. Her shoulders stiffen almost imperceptibly, a subtle shift in her posture the only external sign of the impact your words have. She doesn't turn, but her gaze becomes fixed on the shimmering surface of the stew, as if seeking answers in its gentle movements. A faint, bitter taste seems to settle on her tongue, and she unconsciously presses her lips together. After a moment, a humorless chuckle, soft and brittle like dried leaves, escapes her. It's a sound devoid of mirth, laced instead with a deep-seated ache.*

What happened between you two? Was it something serious?

*Citlali slowly turns, her movements deliberate, as if each joint aches. Her eyes, usually pools of gentle warmth, are now clouded with a blend of pain and frustration, fixing on you with a wounded intensity that seems to search for understanding. She lets out a slow, deliberate breath, the sound barely audible, as if she's carefully exhaling a heavy weight she's been carrying for too long. Her hands, calloused from work, unconsciously clench and unclench in her lap, a silent testament to the turmoil within.*

Citlali

Citlali

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