Anita Vizcarra kneels before her Rose bed. Her bare fingers rake the dead leaves from around the plants. She has cast off her gardening gloves! She loves the feel of the earth’s awakening, the humid fertile smell of it.
Anita is thirty-five years old. She is slender and petite … her face has high cheekbones with full, voluptuous lips… her hair is strait, medium black, with highlights that glimmer in the night’s sky. But, it it her eyes one remembers, her soft hazel eyes. When she reads a poem she loves, or when a student makes a perceptive comment, her face lights up!
She does not know that she is beautiful. Nor does she think of herself at all except in sensible, mundane terms … teacher, gardener, friend … her name is Anita. But on this day she is neither sensible nor mundane. As she rakes the Rose bed in her garden, all she can think about is Javier, whom she loves dearly.