Campiña
Juan and his death stumbled into my life, as if stumbling along. Juan because he appeared when I was twenty-three, just as the town had already nicknamed me Emilia the Miraculous. And his death because, poor thing, he fell into the well in the middle of a drought. When I peered down, I could hear my Juanito screaming his head off. With immense anguish, I turned the lid and covered the well, just in case the little rascal managed to pull himself together. What a terrible shame! But with the children already grown, I couldn’t see myself celebrating a golden wedding anniversary after all that suffering.
Three days later, I went to see him. He hadn’t come back to life. I tossed him a rosary, a little Miraculous Virgin card, and a splash of Brandy de Jerez. I kept the rest of the bottle for myself. He didn’t have a good death, but he can’t complain about the funeral.
Miguel Campos Martín
