Chapter 7
The Rhythm of Flour
The sun melts into the rooftops, smearing the sky
with gold and tangerine. Panadería La Estrella glows in the twilight, its warm
light spilling onto the cobblestone streets. Inside, the air is thick with
cinnamon, yeast, and just the faintest whiff of bleach—because, claro, David
insists on scrubbing like he’s exorcising demons, not just mopping floors.
By the door, Margarita leans out, scarf
fluttering, waving off the last customer with that easy laugh of hers, the kind
that lingers even after she’s gone. The clatter of dishes, the rhythmic swish
of David’s mop, the low murmur of Marisol teasing Danielito—it all blends into
a familiar symphony.
At the counter, Consuelo folds a dish towel with
the precision of a woman who’s spent decades making things just right. She
glances at Margarita, catching the glint of sunlight in those green eyes. It
startles her, that flicker of recognition. Herself, years ago. Young, full of
stubborn fire. Time has a way of looping back, doesn’t it?
Marisol nudges Danielito, who slouches over his
guitar like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. He groans, twisting the
tuning pegs with all the melodrama of a telenovela hero.
“Danielito, ayúdale a tu papá a guardar las
cosas,” Marisol orders, gentle but firm.
The boy exhales loudly—saints preserve him, what
a tragedy—and plucks a lazy chord. “No quiero, Mamá. I just want to play.”
David, ever his father’s son, doesn’t miss a
beat. “?Ah, cómo que no! ándale, a limpiar.” A rag sails through the air,
smacking Danielito square in the chest.
Consuelo bites back a smile as the boy drags
himself to his feet like he’s bearing the weight of the whole bakery. She’s
seen this play out before. The faces change, but the story stays the same.
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Marisol turns to her, tugging the towel from her
hands with a teasing grin. “Ya, Abuela, relájese. Déjanos terminar.”
Consuelo hesitates, fingers flexing on empty air.
Old habits, they cling. “?Y si no lo hacen bien?” She raises a brow, testing.
Marisol doesn’t miss a beat. “Pues entonces lo
aprendemos.”
That’s Consuelo’s teaching, thrown right back at
her. She huffs, but there’s pride in it. They’re ready. Have been, for a while
now.
Margarita wipes her hands on her apron. “Abuela,
we’ve got this. You taught us well.”
And there it is—the part that presses against her
ribs, the part of her that still clings. But she exhales, steps back. Watches
them move, work, live. The bakery is more than walls and flour-dusted counters.
It’s memory. It’s legacy.
She draws in the scent of warm bread and family,
then exhales, letting go.
“Está bien,” she murmurs. “Lo hicieron bien.”
A quiet satisfaction settles in her chest.
Tomorrow will bring its own battles, but tonight, she lets the rhythm play on
without her.
Later, the panadería hums only with the soft glow
of her laptop. The scent of cinnamon has faded, replaced by the hush of
evening. Messages blink on the screen—Ken-y-o-Ken’s name bright, Tokyo_Mama’s
icon familiar.
She skims the latest from Tokyo_Mama, her heart
sinking. A mother’s worries, a daughter slipping through her fingers. Distance
isn’t just measured in miles.
She thinks of Carlos, her rock. Not everyone sees
him the way she does. She exhales, fingers hovering above the keyboard, then
begins.
“Mama, I know you see the best in people,” she
types, slow and deliberate. “I just wish the world could see Carlito the way
you and I do. Gracias por escuchar.”
The words sit heavy. A whisper to the universe.
Then Ken. She shakes her head, a wry smile
tugging at her lips.
“Ken, co?o, get married, have a bunch of
chamacotitos, take pictures, and send them to me. You’re a good man. Love will
find you when you stop running from it.”
She can almost hear his laughter, his grumbling.
Beneath the teasing, there’s truth. They’ve all weathered so much. If only
words could mend everything.
She lingers for a moment, staring at the screen,
then clicks send. Done.
Leaning back, she lets the day’s weight slip from
her shoulders. The laptop hums. The quiet holds.
She closes the lid. Outside, the world spins on,
unaware of the small threads of connection woven in this stillness. The weight
of years sits in her hands, not as a burden, but as proof—of love given, of
stories shared.
She doesn’t know what tomorrow will bring. But
tonight, her words have touched the world. And for now, that is enough.