Tita was literally washed into this world on a great tide of tears that spilled over the edge of the table and flooded across the kitchen floor.

Just as a poet plays with words, Tita juggled ingredients and quantities at will.

And like magic the watermelon ruined would open like the pedals of a flower leaving the heart in tact on the table.

The way Pedro’s eyes were shining, it was impossible not to see them in the shadows, the way two tiny drops of dew, hidden in the weeds, can’t remain unnoticed when they are struck by the first rays of sun.

How a lump of corn is changed into a tortilla, how a soul that hasn’t been warmed by the fire of love is lifeless like a ball of flour.

Mama Elena’s eyes were as sharp as ever.

Inside she felt the effects of snuffing the flame; smoke was rising into her throat tightening into a thick knot and clouding her eyes and making her cry.

She felt its rapid uprising flowing into every last recess of her body.

Pedro and Rosaura’s marriage had left Tita broken in both heart and mind like the quail.

The anger she felt within her acted like yeast on bread dough.

The baby’s cries filled all the empty space in Tita’s heart.

Little by little her vision began to brighten until the tunnel again appeared before her eyes.