By Sorayda Díaz
The room smelled of dust, nurite, and stale smoke. The adobe walls, cracked by the years and the relentless sun, echoed with the grandmother’s sighs. It was her fourth childbirth, and the midwives, in their worn skirts and aprons stained by time, moved like shadows in the dim light. Outside, night had closed its eyes, and the wind seeped through the cracks, mingling with the whispered prayers.
When Teresa was born, silence filled the room. She didn’t cry. There was no shrill cry to announce her arrival into the world. Only her tiny, slippery body, covered in blood and placenta, lay there, motionless, as if the weight of life had fallen upon her too soon.
The women looked at one another, their hands trembling, exhausted from the effort of bringing the baby girl into the world. They tried everything: they rubbed her back, blew gently on her, and prayed softly. But Teresa wouldn’t cry. In desperation, one of them went outside and called for Antonio, the father, who was waiting anxiously with the other men, hat in hand and heart in his mouth.
“Antonio, go get a cigarette,” they told him. “It’s the only thing left to try.”
Without a moment's hesitation, Antonio broke into a run. He stopped where the men were smoking and asked for a cigarette. Someone gave him one, perhaps without fully understanding why he needed it. Antonio returned, panting, with the cigarette between his fingers and fear evident in his eyes.
The midwife lit the cigarette with expert hands. She took a deep drag, brought her mouth close to Teresa’s face, and, with a firm gesture, exhaled a puff of smoke that enveloped the newborn.
Then it happened. A deep, heart-wrenching cry rose from her chest, as if in that instant she had realized everything she owed to life and everything it would take from her. The midwives crossed themselves, murmuring “Thank God,” and my grandmother closed her eyes, relieved. Antonio, standing by the door, let out a sigh and clutched his hat to his chest.
Ever since then, they say Teresa has always carried a bit of that smoke in her soul—a reminder of how life snatched her first breath away and how fate, amid tobacco and earth, decided she had to cry in order to begin living.
And although life brought Teresa unavoidable tears along the way, she transformed them into a perfect blend of courage and nobility. Her heart, tempered by sorrow, became a refuge for those around her.
And within me, through the umbilical cord that bound us together, that smoke, heavy with tears, nourished me. I carry it in my veins, mingled with kindness, courage, and confusion; that smoke, which made her cry in order to live, reminds me that with every breath I take, I carry her strength and her compassion.