Explore "The Nine Guardians" by Rosario Castellanos on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
The rains have set in and the roads to Mexico City are closed. Cars are bogged down in the mud, and planes fall, beaten by the storm. Only the droves of mules go on trafficking among the neighbouring hamlets fetching and carrying goods and passengers and mail.
We lean out of the balconies to watch them come. They trail in the wake of the she-ass who gallantly tinkles her bell. They arrive unshod, with sore backs; but they come from far and they bring news and things from other parts. What joy it gives us to know that among the firmly strapped boxes and the bundles rolled up in rush mats come the canvas mailbags striped in three colours, filled with newspapers and letters! We're so cut off in Comitán in the rains. We are so far away, always. Once I saw a map of Mexico, and to the south, where we live, it came to a full stop. After that, not even a wheel track, just a line to mark the frontier. People go away, and when they go, they write. But their words reach us so many weeks later that by the time we get them they're faded and have no scent, like withered flowers. On this occasion the postman hasn't brought us a thing. Father will reread the newspapers from the time before.