Christina

Soon after I moved to Mexico in 2005, Christina knocked on my door and asked if she could be my housekeeper. That was a lucky day for me. Christina was the hardest-working woman I’ve ever met.

My house, a huge five-bedroom, six-bathroom historic hacienda, took up half a block. The large kitchen was designed for servants to prepare meals for the famous family who lived next door. A small woman with onyx black eyes, Christina wouldn’t go home until she cleaned every inch of my house, top to bottom, wall to wall, including the courtyard. 

Christina worked only on Tuesdays and Fridays. Neto was my handyman and worked every day. They got along like a cat and a dog.

“Buenos Dias,” Neto would sing to Christina as he came through the door in the morning. Christina wouldn’t answer. She glared at him. If she’d been a real cat, she would have hissed and swatted. Instead, she turned her back and kept sweeping the courtyard. 

And then, because Christina spoke only Spanish and my Spanish was even worse than it is now, I asked Neto to translate for me.

“Christina, I need you to be nice to Ernesto. You are very important to me. I couldn’t take care of this house without you. In fact, I would be lost without you. Please answer Ernesto when he talks to you.”

“Buenos Dias,” she would mumble and then go back to sweeping the massive amount of leaves that had fallen from the mango trees overnight.

My favorite time of day in Mexico has always been early morning. The weather is cool and the sun is low in the sky. Birds swoop and sing as the day is just getting started. Christina liked that time of the day, too. Our fountain bubbled with fresh, cold water inviting birds to come, to drink and to splash.

Evenings were meant for the mourning doves, with their beautiful Coo-oo-oo song. Such sweet, gentle birds! They perched on the rim of the fountain before bravely stepping into the water to shower. 

But Christina’s favorite birds were the shiny black cuervos, the crows who arrived like loud drunken guests early in the morning. She talked to them while she swept the courtyard. She swore that they talked back to her.

I asked her, “Christina, why do you talk to the cuervos and you won’t talk to Ernesto?”

“Because I like the cuervos better, “ she answered. “And besides, they are better looking  than he is.”

One day, I heard Christina having a loud, long conversation with one especially bold crow, sitting high in a tree.

“What is she saying?” I asked Neto.

“She’s asking the crow why he never brings her anything. She is telling the crow that if he wants to shower and drink from the fountain, he needs to bring her a present.”

“Does she believe he understands her?”

“I think she does.” Neto and I shook our heads. “She believes the cuervos are as smart as people.”

The next time Christina came to work, she started her day sweeping the courtyard and talking to the crows, as usual. I looked up as I heard her cry, “Ay! Carumba!” I walked over and saw her rubbing her head. Christina opened her hand to show me a ten peso coin that the crow had dropped on top of her. I never again doubted her ability to talk to birds.

I recently learned that my dear friend, Christina, died three weeks ago of kidney failure. Vaya con Dios, mi amiga. Go in peace. May all the birds in the sky watch over you and sing you home.