Susana Foster by Juan Rulfo — Read

The rain leapt as it hit the water of the stream, forming small bubbles that were carried away by the current. Some burst, others disappeared in dew-spattered ripples. The entire stream bubbled up creating a lather that sounded like the song of crickets hidden... in the grass.

Muddy threads slowly emerged in the translucent water, as if red streamers had fallen into the creek. As small streams dropped through ancient channels, they gathered up the loose soil that had formed from chamomile leaves, from old saffron leaves, and from ripened thyme, all made red from the color of the dirt. The water became cloudy, turning increasingly red and gray and black, growing dark until the sand on the bottom disappeared in the shadows.

At that moment, Susana Foster closed her eyes. Her body felt pleasant, naked beneath the tepid summer that began to sow the earth. The cleansing breeze of the rain fell in fresh waves over her muscles, on her arms, and around her breasts. Her eyelids, closed to the light, sensed the new era, and her eyes, there inside, smiled, as only Susana Foster's eyes knew how.

-Have you ever seen the smile in the eyes of a bird? -the doctor asked.

-No. I've never paid attention to those details. I'm not a meticulous person, as you know. If you ask me about a single grave, what I see is a cemetery.