Tía Chica, tall and thin like the ivy plant that slinked around her sister's white-block clay house. Holy eyes big and white like the hen's eggs, and a thick brown tongue that perched on the edge of her caramel gums. Her skin nearly as brown as her quick, slug tongue, but stands better compared to the deep brown of the coffee beans she always kept tucked in her bosom and close to her heart.
At the bottom of her long patchwork jumper sat a thick pair of colorful patent leather Nike tennis shoes, dusty from her walk from her walk from her house, north-west from her sister's white-block home - across two mountain passes and tucked in the Honduran selva. At her highest point lay thick, straw-like woven hair, a mossy grey-green color that complimented her undershirt.
"Gatito!" I called to the house kitty, who made its home in everyone's lap. And at this she chucked, or cackled, or keeckled, really. A KEEKEE-KEEKEE that rattled every bone in her body, but not her hair.
"Gatito! Gatito!" she keeked through her gums.
My eyes returned to the cat and back up to the old woman's hard-worn face, but she had taken off in a half gallop, half waddle that looked as if she were tripping her way to the field aside the house. Over the sticks she crept, like a toddler test-driving its new baby-calf legs, until only the top of her mossy head was visible bobbing down the hill and out of my sight from the time-eaten porch swing.
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