Mamá había dejado todo para sentarse en la mesa. Papá había salido temprano con la mula, pero ella se echó y no quiso caminar más. La única pobre mula que nos quedaba, casi sin fuerza y algo vieja. Hacía mucho tiempo que no llovía. Las plantas se secaban. El llanto interno de mi mamá era tan evidente que no se decía nada para no interrumpirle en su rezo. El sol parecía distante, como si nos hubiese aplicado la ley del hielo, escondido tras las nubes. Era un clima seco, frío y declinado. El pobre riachuelo se había secado, solo corría un pequeño hilo tan fino que la pobre mula se cansaba de hacer pequeños posos para beber y no lo lograba. Se secaba en un instante, solo lograba llenarse de fango todas las patas. La única cosa buena que parecía suceder era el olor a plátano y cambur que venía en la débil brisa de oriente (que ya no traía ese aroma a mar, a costa, a aventura). Papá, después de pelear con la mula, intentaba hacer las paces, pero nada funcionaba, seguía echada. Para ella no importaba nada, era sorda a las palabras y piedra frente a los sentimientos. Su cansancio era tan grande que nada la movería. Yo estaba intentado cavar un poso, pero tenía los mismos resultados que la mula. Fatigado, alzaba los ojos al cielo para ver si llovería. Esperaba que las oraciones de mi madre fueran escuchadas al instante. Papá terminó por ehcarse junto a la mula. Los mangos verdes goteaban, los pájaros no cantaban. Mamá seguía en la mesa, esta vez rezando con lágrimas en los ojos (¿será es la única gota de agua que veríamos ese día?). El verde parecía opacarse, todo parecía dormido, a la espera de algo que no sucederá pronto. Parecía que la única respuesta a todo era imitar a la mula o a mi mamá.

Mom had dropped everything to sit at the table. Dad had left early with the mule, but she lay down and didn't want to walk anymore. The only poor mule that we had left, almost without strength and somewhat old. It hadn't rained in a long time. Plants were drying up. My mother's internal crying was so evident that nothing was said so as not to interrupt her prayer. The sun seemed distant, as if it had applied the law of ice to us, hidden behind the clouds. It was a dry, cold and declining climate. The poor stream had dried up, only a small thread ran so fine that the poor mule got tired of making small grounds to drink and could not do it. It dried in an instant, it only managed to fill all the legs with mud. The only good thing that seemed to happen was the smell of banana and banana that came in the weak breeze from the East (which no longer brought that aroma of the sea, to the coast, to adventure). Dad, after fighting with the mule, tried to make amends, but nothing worked, he was still lying. Nothing mattered to her, she was deaf to words and stone to feelings. Her fatigue was so great that nothing would move her. I was trying to dig a well, but it had the same results as the mule. Wearily, he raised his eyes to the sky to see if it would rain. I expected my mother's prayers to be heard instantly. Papa ended up lying next to the mule. Green mangoes dripped, birds did not sing. Mom was still at the table, this time praying with tears in her eyes (is it the only drop of water we would see that day?). The green seemed to fade, everything seemed asleep, waiting for something that will not happen soon. It seemed that the only answer to everything was to imitate the mule or my mother.